Q.  E.  D. 


Q.  E.  D. 


BY  LEE  THAYER 


AUTHOR  OF 

"The  Unlatched  Door,"  "The  Mystery  of  the  13th  Floor" 
"That  Affair  at  'The  Cedars'"  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with   Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT   OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  STREET  &  SMITH  CORPORATION 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITT,  N.  T. 


To 

E.  H.  C. 

IN    GRATEFUL    ACKNOWLEDGMENT   THIS 
BOOK     IS     AFFECTIONATELY     DEDICATED 


2138594 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  MISSING  GUEST         ......  i 

II.    ONE  LINE  OF  FOOTPRINTS n 

III.  PETER  CLANCY  PUZZLES  INSPECTOR  WINKLE  20 

IV.  INSPECTOR  WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE.     .  33 
V.     "WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET "  .     .  50 

VI.    WHAT  PETER  HEARD 60 

VII.    ENTER— BILL 72 

VIII.     "CHERCHEZLAFEMME" 87 

IX.    "THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK" 98 

X.    "L.  H." 119 

XL    WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN  ?        .     .     .     .  137 

XII.     "THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"      .     .  155 

XIII.  INSPECTOR   WINKLE    PROPOUNDS   A   NEW 

THEORY 176 

XIV.  AN  INTERLUDE        188 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.    A  FRAME-UP?       ........     200 


XVI.  "TnENAMEls  --  "  .......  219 

XVII.  THE  STORM  GATHERS      ......  230 

XVIII.  "FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"     ....  242 

XIX.  THE  STORM  BREAKS  .......  256 

XX.  THE  CURTAIN  FALLS       ......  271 


Q.  E.  D. 


0-  E.  D. 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  MISSING  GUEST 

WELL,  it  sure  is  good  to  have  old  Red-top  play- 
ing around  with  us  once  more,  isn't  it, 
Mother?" 

Harrison  Carlisle  stood  with  his  back  to  the  broad 
open  fireplace,  luxuriously  warming  his  khaki-clad, 
woollen-stockinged  legs.  He  was  a  short,  rather 
thick-set  young  man  with  a  bronzed  face  to  which 
a  pair  of  twinkling,  light  blue  eyes,  a  short,  broad  nose, 
and  a  rather  long,  smooth-shaven  upper  lip  gave  an 
expression  of  careless,  quizzical  good  humour. 

His  relationship  to  the  old  lady  who  stood  beside 
him  was  apparent  to  the  most  casual  observer,  though 
she  was  very  much  stouter  than  her  son  and  had 
none  of  his  negligent  looseness  of  carriage.  She  was, 
in  fact,  so  upright  and  had  such  an  enormous  bust 
and  other  architectural  features  that  she  always  gave 
the  effect  of  preceding  herself  into  a  room. 

At  her  son's  words  she  turned  her  smiling,  wrinkled 
old  face  toward  another  young  man  who  was  drawing 


2  Q.  E.  D. 

her  comfortable  winged  armchair  nearer  the  fire  and 
regarded  his  pleasant,  freckled  Irish  countenance  with 
twinkling  approval. 

"Mr.  Clancy  knows  how  welcome  he  always  is 
here,  Harry,"  she  said,  in  a  cordial  voice,  surprisingly 
youthful  in  tone.  "He  doesn't  come  nearly  often 
enough.  You  know  you  have  been  working  too 
hard,  Mr.  Clancy.  It's  about  time  you  were  taking 
a  rest." 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  take  a  real  rest  this  time,  Mrs. 
Carlisle,"  replied  the  young  man,  leaning  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  which  he  had  placed  to  his  satisfaction. 
"I  haven't  been  fishing  with  Harry  for  years  and  I 
can't  imagine  a  greater  rest  than  that,  especially  if 
we  let  him  go  down  the  stream  first.  We  won't  any 
of  us  have  the  bother  of  landing  anything.  .  .  . 
We'll  get  a  lot  of  experience,  and  Harry'll  get  the 
fish,"  and  he  laughed  boyishly. 

The  old  lady  seated  herself  in  her  chair  and  drew 
her  knitting  out  of  the  side  pocket,  glancing  across 
the  wide,  cheerfully  lighted  room  to  a  tall  old  clock 
which  stood  in  the  corner. 

"I  think  you  boys  ought  to  get  started  pretty 
soon,"  she  said.  "It's  nearly  eight  o'clock  and  it's 
a  long  drive  up  to  the  Club.  The  roads  won't  be 
any  too  good,  either.  I  don't  quite  like  your  going 
up  at  night,  Harry." 

"Oh,  there'll  be  a  moon,  Mother,  and  with  this 
light  snow  on  the  ground  we'll  be  able  to  see  per- 


THE  MISSING  GUEST  3 

fectly.  It'll  be  a  good  thing  for  the  driving;  not  too 
deep,  and  as  smooth  and  white  as  a  blanket.  I  hate 
to  see  it  coming  so  late,  though.  Suppose  the  trout'll 
know  it's  April  first  and  come  out  and  be  caught? 
Old  Red-top's  going  to  be  awfully  disappointed  if  he 
doesn't  get  any  fish  after  I've  dragged  him  away  out 
into  the  wilds  of  northern  New  Jersey,  and  after  all 
I've  said  of  the  fishing  up  around  the  Club,  aren't 
you,  old  sport?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Clancy,  laughing. 
"It'll  be  such  a  change  for  me,  messing  around  in  the 
woods  with  nothing  on  my  mind." 

"And  catching  fish  instead  of  the  wily  crook?" 
grinned  Carlisle. 

"Oh,  cut  that  out,  Harry,"  exclaimed  Clancy,  feel- 
ingly. "Let's  forget  it  for  a  while.  I  don't  want  to 
remember  for  the  next  few  days  that  there's  a  thief  or 
defaulter  or  any  other  kind  of  a  criminal  in  the  world. 
That  last  case  of  mine  nearly  put  me  on  the  blink. 
I  worked  on  it  for  three  days  and  two  nights  without 
a  wink  of  sleep,  and  hardly  a  thing  to  eat." 

"That  was  the  Allison  emerald  case,  Mother," 
interrupted  Carlisle,  eagerly.  "We  read  about  it  in 
the  papers.  You  remember?  Our  good  old  Red-top 
was  the  god  in  the  machine,  and  we  never  suspected 
it,  did  we?" 

"No!  You  don't  mean  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Carlisle, 
dropping  her  knitting  and  leaning  forward  in  her 
chair.  "The  papers  spoke  of  the  clever  work  of  a  firm 


4  Q.  E.  D. 

of  private  detectives,  but  I  didn't  realize —  Oh,  I 
wish  you  could  tell  us  the  whole  story,  Mr.  Clancy. 
It  was  such  an  interesting  case." 

"Mother  is  simply  nuts  on  detective  stories, 
whether  real  or  imaginary,"  laughed  Carlisle,  patting 
the  old  lady's  shoulder,  "and  so  am  I.  That's  one 
reason  she's  so  keen  about  you,  old  Red-top.  Ever 
since  Peter  Clancy  began  to  make  his  mark  in  the 
annals  of  crime  I  think  she's  been  glad  we  went  to 
school  together.  I  never  ask  a  bunch  of  men  out  here 
that  Mother  doesn't  suggest  my  inviting  you— 

"But  that  isn't  the  only  reason,  Harry,"  said  the 
old  lady,  with  dignity.  "Mr.  Clancy  knows,  I'm 
sure,  that  I  like  him  for  himself." 

"Of  course  I  do,  Mrs.  Carlisle,"  said  Clancy, 
heartily.  "Don't  you  let  him  tease  you.  You've 
been  just  bully  to  me  always,  and  I'd  love  to  tell  you 
all  about  the  Allison  emeralds,  but  I'm  afraid  we 
haven't  time  this  evening." 

"No,  we  haven't,"  exclaimed  Carlisle.  "We  ought 
to  be  moving  now.  I  wonder  what's  keeping 
Kent.  Seems  to  me  I  could  have  changed  my 
clothes  twice  since  dinner."  He  crossed  the  broad, 
low  room  and  stepping  out  into  the  hospitable-look- 
ing old  hall,  called  up  the  stairs:  "Rob!  Oh,  Rob! 
Aren't  you  almost  ready?" 

"In  a  minute,"  a  voice  answered,  and  Harrison 
Carlisle  came  back  into  the  room. 

"He'll  be  ready  in  a  minute,"  he  said,  with  a  jerk 


THE  MISSING  GUEST  5 

of  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  stairs,  and  added, 
in  a  slightly  lowered  voice :  "  Sorry  to  ring  in  a  perfect 
stranger  to  you  on  this  party,  Clancy,  old  chap,  but 
Kent's  been  after  me  for  a  long  time  to  take  him 
trout  fishing,  and  when  I  met  him  in  town  the  other 
day  he  said  he'd  heard  I  was  taking  some  fellows  up 
to  the  Club  for  the  opening  day,  and  asked  if  he  could 
go  along.  You'll  find  him  a  pretty  good  sport,  I 
think,  though  I  don't  know  just  how  he'll  be  in  the 
woods.  I've  been  out  for  tarpon  with  him  down  in 
Florida,  and  he's  all  right  at  that..  Mother  thinks 
he's  too  much  of  a  fancy  dresser  to  be  a  real  good 
sportsman." 

"I  never  said  anything  of  the  kind,  Harrison,"  the 
old  lady  interrupted,  indignantly. 

"No,"  grinned  Carlisle,  "but  I  saw  you  looking  at 
him  all  through  dinner.  Oh,"  he  broke  off  as  the 
door  bell  rang,  "that  must  be  Louis  Hood  at  last. 
I'll  let  him  in,"  and  he  started  toward  the  hall. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  door  of  the  big  long 
room,  however,  a  silent-footed  Japanese  manservant, 
in  a  white  jacket,  passed  it  and  opened  the  front  door. 
Followed  a  softly  spoken  word  or  two  and  the  quiet, 
inscrutable-faced  servant  returned,  bearing  a  small 
package  on  a  tray.  All  of  his  movements  were  of  a 
silky  smoothness.  He  presented  the  package  to 
Harrison  Carlisle,  who  stood  nearest,  and  silently 
withdrew. 

"Package   for  you  from  the   drug  store   in  the 


6  Q.  E.  D. 

village,  Mother,"  said  Carlisle,  glancing  at  the  label. 
"Shall  I  put  it  here?  I  thought,"  he  added,  ad- 
vancing into  the  room,  "I  thought  Hoki  wasn't 
here,  Mother.  Why  didn't  you  have  him  serve  din- 
ner to-night  instead  of  Louise?  He  does  so  much 
better." 

"I  know,  Harry,  but  I  have  to  give  Hoki  a  day  off 
now  and  then,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Carlisle.  "I 
know  you  hate  to  have  one  of  the  maids  wait  on  the 
table.  I  thought  Hoki  would  be  back  in  time.  But 
he  was  late  and  I  don't  like  to  say  anything.  He's 
very  expert  and  very  faithful,  and  it's  hard  to  get 
or  keep  servants,  so  far  from  town." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  old  dear.  Don't  you  bother," 
said  Harrison,  affectionately.  "Here  comes  Kent  at 
last,  and  I'll  bet  he  is  arrayed  like  one  of  these.  Come 
in  here,  Rob,"  he  called  as  a  step  sounded  on  the 
stair.  "We're  in  here  by  the  fire,  waiting  for  Louis 
Hood  to  show  up.  I  wonder  what's  keeping  him." 

"Hasn't  he  come  yet?"  asked  Robert  Kent,  en- 
tering the  room,  hurriedly.  "I  thought  you  were 
waiting  for  me." 

He  was  a  small,  thin  man  of  indeterminate  age, 
dressed  very  carefully  in  an  extremely  complete  and 
polite  sportsman's  outfit.  Compared  to  the  rough 
old  clothes  worn  by  Carlisle  and  Clancy  the  effect  was 
somewhat  amateurish.  He  advanced  toward  Mrs. 
Carlisle  with  a  smile  which  showed  his  beautiful, 
even  white  teeth,  and  spoke  in  a  drawling  manner 


THE  MISSING  GUEST  7 

with  slightly  exaggerated  courtesy.  In  appearance 
he  presented  a  sharp  contrast  to  his  friend  Carlisle, 
and  Peter  Clancy  wondered  what  the  two  could  have 
in  common.  Not  much  besides  the  love  of  sport,  he 
decided,  and  even  that  attracted  them  differently,  it 
was  plain  to  be  seen. 

"I  think  we  have  to  thank  you  for  the  best  dinner 
that  was  ever  eaten  in  all  the  State  of  New  Jersey, 
Mrs.  Carlisle,"  Kent  was  saying.  "It  was  a  fine 
preparation  for  a  cold  drive." 

"I'm  with  you  there,"  said  Clancy,  heartily.  "Too 
bad  Mr.  Hood  had  to  miss  it." 

"You  did  expect  him  to  dinner,  didn't  you?" 
asked  Kent,  turning  to  his  host.  "Are  you  sure  he's 
coming?  It's  getting  late  for  starting." 

"Oh,  he'll  show  up  all  right,"  said  Carlisle,  easily. 
"Trust  Louis  Hood  not  to  miss  opening  day  if  he  had 
to  break  the  ice  in  the  brooks.  He's  over  at  his 
mother's.  .  .  .  Funny,"  he  broke  off,  "I  can't 
get  used  to  calling  it  anything  else  even  though  the 
dear  old  lady's  been  dead  since  last  fall.  Anyhow, 
he  had  to  stop  and  pick  up  his  tackle  and  change  to 
fishing  clothes.  He  'phoned  me  from  town  that  he 
couldn't  get  here  for  dinner,  but  he'd  be  over  soon 
after.  He  ought  to  be  here  now!" 

"I  should  think,  dear,  since  it's  getting  so  late," 
said  Mrs.  Carlisle,  glancing  again  at  the  clock, 
"that  you'd  better  drive  over  for  him.  You  said  he 
was  walking  over  here,  didn't  you?  His  shortest 


8  Q.  E.  D. 

way  is  to  come  by  the  road,  and  you  couldn't  miss 
him." 

"Isn't  she  the  bright  child!"  exclaimed  Harrison, 
wagging  his  head  at  his  mother  and  reaching  over  to 
pat  her  cheek.  "You  might  think  she  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  us,  but  it  isn't  that  at  all.  Her  mind's  just  full 
of  those  speckled  beauties  we'll  be  after  to-morrow. 
Come  on,  fellows !  Mother's  got  the  right  idea.  No 
use  fooling  around  here  any  longer.  We'll  pick  Hood 
up  on  the  way."  He  leaned  over  and  took  both  of 
the  old  lady's  hands,  drawing  her  to  her  feet.  "Come 
out  and  see  us  off,  Mother,  and  wish  us  luck,  and 
we'll  bring  you  back  the  finest  mess  of  trout  you  ever 
laid  your  eyes  on." 

"Yes,  wish  us  luck,  Mrs.  Carlisle,"  laughed  Clancy. 
"It'll  do  us  more  good,  I  know,  than  any  number  of 
four-leaved  shamrocks!" 

Laughing  and  talking,  they  had  all  reached  the  hall. 
The  Japanese  butler  glided  out  from  the  shadows, 
helped  the  men  on  with  their  coats,  and  threw  open 
the  front  door.  An  able-looking  closed  car  stood 
ready  in  the  drive  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"Wish  you  were  coming  with  us,  old  dear,"  said 
Harry,  stooping  to  kiss  his  mother,  who  laughed  with 
the  hearty  camaraderie  of  a  girl. 

"I'd  look  well  wading  a  stream  at  my  time  of  life, 
wouldn't  I,  Mr.  Kent?"  she  said  as  she  shook  his 
hand.  "No,  Harry,  my  son,  your  old  mother  can 
still  cast  from  a  boat,  thank  Heaven,  but  that's  the 


THE  MISSING  GUEST  9 

best  you  can  expect  of  her  now.  Good  luck  to  all 
you  boys,  and  good  sport!  And,"  she  added,  in 
a  lower  voice,  drawing  Clancy's  red  head  down  so 
that  she  could  speak  in  his  ear,  "you  get  on  the 
stream  first,  and  keep  ahead  of  Harry.  He  gets 
plenty  of  fishing  all  the  time.  It's  only  fair." 

"What  are  you  plotting  with  old  Red-top, 
Mother?"  called  Carlisle  from  the  depths  of  the  car 
where  he  was  placing  his  beloved  rods  so  that  they 
would  ride  without  injury.  "If  you  have  secrets 
with  Clancy,  Rob  and  I  are  going  to  be  jealous, 
aren't  we,  Rob?  Here,  you  get  in  at  the  back,  old 
man.  Does  that  leave  room  enough  for  your  legs? 
All  right.  Get  in  front  with  me,  Red-top.  All  set? 
Ready,  on  your  mark!  Good-bye,  Mother;  take  care 
of  yourself.  I'll  'phone  you  from  the  Club.  We 
ought  to  make  it  by  ten,  or  a  little  after.  Good-bye, 
dear!" 

The  car  door  slammed,  the  starter  buzzed,  the 
engine  took  hold  with  a  will,  and  the  big  car  rolled 
smoothly  down  the  white  drive. 

The  old  lady  turned  back  into  the  warmed  and 
lighted  house  with  a  smile  and  a  little  sigh.  Her 
eyes  met  those  of  the  inscrutable  yellow-faced  ser- 
vant. 

"It's  hard  to  have  a  tired  old  body,"  she  said,  half 
aloud,  "when  one's  spirit's  still  young,  isn't  it,  Hoki? 
Oh  well" — she  drew  a  long  breath  and  spread  out  her 
plump,  gentle  old  hands.  "You  can  lock  up  now," 


io  Q.  E.  D. 

she  continued,  "and  go  to  bed.    I  shan't  need  you  any 
more.     Good-night,  Hoki." 

The  quiet  Japanese  bowed  low,  with  a  polite  and 
deeply  respectful  hiss,  which  was  his  nearest  approach 
to  speech,  and  silently  departed. 


CHAPTER  II 
ONE  LINE  OF  FOOTPRINTS 

IT  WAS  not  a  long  drive  from  the  hospitable 
Carlisle  home  to  the  old  Hood  place  on  Fernwood 
Road,  though  the  road  was  steep  and  winding.  It 
ran  mostly  through  woods  and  shrubbery,  and 
skirted  large  estates  that  comprised  the  rich,  semi- 
suburban  village  of  Fern  Hills. 

The  light  snow  which  had  fallen  earlier  in  the  day 
had  now  completely  ceased,  and  the  rising  moon  was 
slowly  and  leisurely  ascending  the  heavens  through 
drifting  scarfs  of  cloud. 

The  two  great  eyes  of  the  car  shone  ahead  with  a 
brilliant  glare  and  the  three  sportsmen  looked  ea- 
gerly out  on  all  sides  for  the  fourth  man  who  was  to 
complete  the  cheerful  party. 

"Something  must  have  happened  to  detain  Louis," 
said  Carlisle  more  than  once  as  they  drove  swiftly 
along.  "Wish  we'd  thought  to  'phone  that  we 
were  coming  for  him.  But  that's  just  like  me. 
I  always  go  off  half  cocked.  Never  mind;  we  can't 
miss  him.  He's  sure  to  come  this  way.  Oh! 
here—  The  car  slowed  down  and  almost  stop- 

ped, as  the  light  fell  on  the  single  figure  of  a 


12  Q.  E.  D. 

man  walking  swiftly  toward  them  at  the  side  of  the 
road. 

The  man  threw  up  his  arm  to  shelter  his  face  from 
the  blinding  glare  of  the  lights. 

"Hello,  Louis,  is  that  you?"  called  Carlisle,  as 
they  drew  alongside.  "We  thought  you  were  never 
coming  and—  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  broke 

off,  "I  mistook  you  for '  The  rest  was  lost  in 

the  increased  noise  of  the  engine. 

The  man  in  the  road  said  nothing,  and  went 
quickly  on  his  way. 

"You  chump!"  said  Peter  Clancy,  laughing. 
"That  man  was  a  foot  shorter  than  Mr.  Hood. 
Couldn't  you  see?  And  he  had  no  rods  or  anything 
in  his  hands." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  notice,"  said  Carlisle,  easily. 
"Doesn't  matter,  anyway.  We're  almost  there. 
This  is  the  beginning  of  his  drive,"  and  he  swung  off 
the  main  road  into  a  broad  driveway  covered  with 
an  almost  unbroken  sheet  of  pure  white  snow  and 
bordered  with  a  thicket  of  rhododendron  from  which 
tall  pine  and  hemlock  trees  rose,  whispering  softly 
in  the  mild  southern  breeze. 

The  shadowy  drive  ran  smoothly  westward,  curv- 
ing in  and  out  among  the  trees  and  shrubbery,  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  three  men  descried  the  dim 
bulk  of  a  long,  low,  old-fashioned  house  looming 
dark  through  the  branches. 

"Not  a  light,"  murmured  Harrison  in  a  slightly 


ONE  LINE  OF  FOOTPRINTS  13 

worried  tone.  "I  do  hope  we  haven't  missed  old 
Louis  on  the  road.  Don't  see  how  we  could,  though." 
And  "Honk— H  O  N  K!"  his  horn  spoke  as  they 
swept  up  to  the  foot  of  a  wide,  open  terrace  which 
ran  across  the  south  end  of  the  house. 

They  waited  a  minute,  but  as  there  was  no  response 
from  the  dark  house,  Carlisle  remarked  impatiently: 
"We'd  better  ring  the  bell  and  make  sure  he  isn't 
here  before  we  turn  back.  Hop  out  Clancy,  old 
chap,  and  let  me  through.  We'll  soon  see." 

Clancy  had  flung  the  car  door  open  and  was  al- 
ready standing  on  the  shallow  step  of  the  terrace. 
Carlisle  leaped  out  and  ran  up  the  steps.  Peter 
followed  more  slowly.  Kent  contented  himself  with 
merely  opening  the  rear  door  in  readiness  for  Hood, 
,  in  case  he  should  still  be  there,  and  waited,  listening 
to  Harrison's  impatient  voice  as  he  proceeded  to  the 
main  entrance  of  the  house. 

"Must  be  after  eight,"  he  was  saying  to  Clancy. 
"I  can't  see  how  we  could  have  done  it,  but  we've 
probably  missed  him  on  the  road,  and  he'll  be  flirting 
with  Mother  by  this  time.  Never  mind,  she'll  keep 
him  till  we  get  back,  and  it  really  isn't  so  very  late." 

They  were  walking  along  the  slightly  trodden  snow 
on  the  inner  edge  of  the  terrace  nearest  the  house. 
At  its  outer  margin,  save  for  a  break  in  the  middle, 
opposite  the  entrance,  a  row  of  closely  planted, 
pointed  cedars  cast  their  pale  blue  shadows  out  upon 
the  faintly  gleaming  snow.  Other  shadows  than 


I4  Q.  E.  D. 

these  there  were  none,  for  the  terrace  was  quite  open 
to  the  sky. 

"We  ought  to  have  a  good  day  to-morrow," 
Harrison  went  on,  hopefully,  pressing  the  button 
of  the  front-door  bell,  which  answered  with  a  vibrant 
buzzing  ring,  far  at  the  other  end  of  the  silent  house. 
"The  wind's  in  the  southwest,  and  it's  warming  up. 
The  snow'll  be  gone  by  noon."  He  pressed  the  bell 
again,  impatiently,  and  turned  slightly  on  the 
doorstep,  looking  up  at  the  sky.  "Clouds  all  break- 
ing away,"  he  added  as  the  moon  suddenly  rode  clear 

in  all  its  shining  beauty.  "We'll  have Good 

heavens !  What  is  it,  Clancy  ? " 

Peter  Clancy  had  caught  his  arm  in  a  vise-like  grip 
and  swung  him  about  with  his  back  to  the  door.  He 
was  pointing  straight  out  across  the  terrace,  where 
some  steps  led  down  to  a  broad,  smooth,  snow- 
covered  lawn. 

"My  God!    Look  at  that!" 

At  the  wild  note  of  alarm  in  Clancy's  voice  Kent 
leaped  from  the  car,  and  came  running  toward  them 
on  the  inner  side  of  the  terrace. 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?"  he  shouted, 
breathlessly.  "IsHood- 

At  the  same  instant  there  was  the  sound  of  hurry- 
ing feet  inside  the  house.  Lights  flashed  up  in 
lanterns  all  along  the  terrace;  the  door  swung  open, 
and  a  tall  man  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"That  you,  Harrison?" 


ONE  LINE  OF  FOOTPRINTS  15 

"Oh  Louis,  Louis!    Thank  God  you're Look! 

Look  there!" 

"My — My  God!"  groaned  Louis  Hood  in  an 
agonized  murmur.  "He  must  have  done  it,  after  all!' 
And  he  dashed  madly  straight  across  the  terrace. 

"Stop!  Hood!  Stop!  for  God's  sake!  Keep 
clear!  Keep  around  to  the  right!"  shouted  Clancy, 
his  voice  thrilling  with  intense  excitement  as  he 
darted  after  Hood.  "You,  too,  Harry:  keep  around 
this  way!"  he  called  over  his  shoulder. 

Obedient  to  the  tone  of  command,  Carlisle  and 
Kent  swerved  a  little  to  the  right,  as  they  followed, 
breathlessly. 

The  moon  and  the  lights  along  the  terrace  made  it 
as  light  as  day.  In  the  centre,  opposite  the  house  door, 
where  the  wall  of  cedars  which  sheltered  the  terrace 
edge  was  broken,  a  few  broad  shallow  steps  led  down 
to  the  smooth,  sloping  lawn,  over  whose  blank  white- 
ness the  moon  shed  its  clear,  still  radiance. 

Lying  almost  in  the  centre  of  the  steps,  half  upon 
them,  and  half  upon  the  smooth  snow-carpet  of  the 
lawn,  lay  a  sprawling,  horrible,  inert  mass — a  some- 
thing which  had  once  been  human,  sentient,  alive 
in  every  pulse  of  pounding  heart  and  throbbing 
brain,  but  which  now  lay  still  and  awful,  with  head 
strangely  twisted  on  one  shoulder,  with  stark  white 
face  turned  upward,  a  great  blot  of  crimson  beside  it, 
staining  the  shining  snow. 

"He  is  quite  dead,"  groaned  Hood,  who  was  al- 


16  Q.  E.  D. 

ready  on  his  knees  beside  the  body  when  Clancy 
swiftly  reached  his  side. 

Peter  leaned  over  quickly  and  touched  Hood's 
shoulder. 

"Don't,"  he  whispered  in  Hood's  ear,  and,  as  the 
other  turned  a  startled,  stricken  face  toward  him, 
Peter  said  aloud,  a  little  sharply,  "Don't  disturb 
the  body,  Mr.  Hood!  I've  had  a  good  deal 

of    experience.     You'd     better    let    me "     He 

caught  Louis  Hood  lightly  by  the  arm,  and  drew  him 
back,  swiftly  taking  his  place  beside  the  body. 

After  a  moment's  examination,  he  turned  toward 
the  white,  awed  faces  which  were  bending  above  him, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"Stone  dead,"  he  said,  gravely:  "Been  dead 
nearly  an  hour,  I  should  think.  Who  is  it?"  he 
added,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  his  glance 
coming  to  rest  on  the  face  of  Louis  Hood. 

The  other  two  men  shook  their  heads  in  startled, 
awed  bewilderment  and  also  turned  to  Hood  for  an 
answer. 

"He  called  himself  Walter  Brown,"  Hood  said, 
slowly,  after  a  pause.  "I  knew  him  only  slightly. 

I Oh,  poor  boy,  poor  boy!     He  must  have  been 

more  desperate  than " 

Clancy  broke  in  sharply:  "You  think  he  killed 
himself?"  he  asked,  looking  Hood  full  in  the  eyes. 

"Why,  of  course,"  Hood  muttered,  confusedly. 
"There  was  no  one  else  here,  and " 


ONE  LINE  OF  FOOTPRINTS  17 

Again  Clancy  shook  his  head,  and  the  gravity  of 
his  face  deepened.  He  turned  and  bent  above  the 
prostrate  figure,  motioning  to  the  others  to  look. 
"How  could  he  have  killed  himself?"  he  asked. 
"You  see?"  He  pointed  with  a  hand  which,  in 
spite  of  the  many  terrible  scenes  he  had  witnessed, 
shook  a  little.  "That  wound  in  the  neck  might 
have  been  self-inflicted — but,  see  this!  Look  at  the 
strange  position  of  the  head.  Nothing  in  a  fall  of 
his  own  height  could  account  for  it.  Notice  the  way 
it  lies,  bent  clear  over  on  the  right  shoulder.  It 
could  only  lie  like  that  for  one  reason.  The  man's 
neck  is  broken!"  He  said  this  with  a  quiet  finality. 

"That  means "  whispered  Carlisle,  speaking  al- 
most for  the  first  time,  and  it  was  odd  to  see  how 
strangely  horror  and  awe  strove  for  mastery  in  his 
humorous,  careless  face. 

"It  means,"  said  Clanc}^  straightening  and  speak- 
ing with  an  air  of  authority,  "it  means — murder!" 

There  was  an  instant's  gasping,  horrified  silence. 
Louis  Hood  put  up  his  hand,  covering  his  eyes  for  a 
second.  Carlisle  stared  at  Clancy,  his  expression 
suddenly  gone  perfectly  blank.  Kent  glanced  side- 
wise  at  Hood  with  a  strange  look — was  it  suspicion  ?— 
in  his  keen,  dark  eyes,  but  he  said  never  a  word. 

No  one  thought  of  doubting  Clancy's  statement. 
The  facts,  when  noted,  spoke  for  themselves.  It  was 
impossible  for  a  man  to  break  his  own  neck,  and  the 
strange  position  of  the  head,  at  a  complete  right 


i8  Q.  E.  D. 

angle  from  the  body,  left  no  doubt  that  such,  un- 
likely as  it  might  seem,  was  the  case.  Peter  went  on 
without  a  pause: 

"You  must  get  the  police  and  the  doctor  at  once. 
Hurry  up!  No  time  should  be  lost;  though  there's 
no  hope  for  him,  poor  chap!"  He  looked  back  at 
the  awful,  still  figure  on  the  steps.  "It's  of  you  I  am 
thinking."  He  turned  to  Hood,  who  had  come 
out  without  coat  or  hat,  and  was  shaking  violently 
with  cold  and  excitement.  "It's  a  damned  un- 
pleasant thing  to  have  happen  on  your  own  doorstep. 
But  pull  yourself  together,  man,  and  get  the  police 
here  as  fast  as  you  can.  That's  your  job.  You  go 
with  him,  Harry,  and  you,  too,  Mr.  Kent.  Go  in 
where  it's  warm.  I'll  wait  here." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  three  men,  Clancy 
turned  on  the  doorstep  and  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Oh,  Pete,  Pete,  old  top,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"you're  out  of  luck  again.  There'll  be  no  fishing 
trip,  of  course.  But  you  needn't  take  this  case. 
You  need  a  rest.  Let  someone  else  worry."  His 
tone  was  almost  pleading.  "Let  someone  else — 

He  walked  a  few  paces  along  the  inner  edge  of  the 
terrace  toward  the  car  from  which  they  had  alighted 
in  such  high  spirits  only  a  few  moments  before.  A 
few  paces — and  stopped,  regarding  with  frowning 
eyes  the  broad  surface  of  the  terrace  pavement 
covered  evenly  with  smooth  white  snow. 

"And  yet,  it's  a  pretty  case,  Pete.     You  won't  see 


ONE  LINE  OF  FOOTPRINTS  19 

another  like  it  in  many  a  long  day.  A  strange, 
baffling  case." 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  caught  his 
thumb  between  his  teeth,  considering,  with  bent 
head. 

"Exactly  what  do  you  mean?"  he  muttered, 
softly,  looking  steadily  down  at  his  feet.  "One  line 
of  footprints  leading  to  the  body — and  none  return- 
ing from  it.  One  line — and  only  one.  I  can  swear 
it.  When  the  lights  flashed  up,  it  was  as  bright  as 
day,  and  they  were  perfectly  clear  and  distinct. 
There  was  no  mark  in  the  snow  anywhere  near  the 
body  except  that  one  single  line  of  footprints — and 
no  sign  of  a  struggle.  And  yet  it  was  murder.  It 
could  be  nothing  else.  It  was  murder,  as  I  am  a 
living  soul!" 


CHAPTER  III 
PETER  CLANCY  PUZZLES  INSPECTOR  WINKLE 

NO  POSSIBLE  doubt  about  it!" 
Dr.  Bernard  Moore,  a  dark,  clever-looking 
man  of  forty-five  or  fifty,  who  had  been  hastily  sum- 
moned and  had  arrived  almost  simultaneously  with 
the  two  blue-coated  policemen  from  the  village,  was 
speaking  in  a  low,  decided  voice  to  the  police  in- 
spector, who  had  but  that  moment  reached  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy,  having  made  all  possible  speed  from 
Morrisville,  the  county  town,  lying  about  five  miles 
to  the  west  of  Fern  Hills. 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right,  Doctor.  It 
looks  as  if  the  poor  chap  had  been  dead  some  time, 
and  as  if  his  neck  was  broken,"  said  the  inspector, 
gravely,  bending  low  over  the  body,  which  still 
lay  in  its  strange  position  on  the  terrace  steps. 
"Seems  kind  of  unnecessary,  too,  with  that  cut  in 
his  throat."  His  sharp  little  eyes,  in  their  folds  of 
leathery  flesh,  glanced  rapidly  over  the  prostrate 
figure,  and  his  bald  eyebrows  drew  together  in  a 
puzzled  frown. 

He  turned  quickly  to  the  small  group  of  gentlemen 
who  stood  drawn  close  together,  a  few  paces  behind 

20 


CLANCY  PUZZLES  THE  INSPECTOR    21 

him,  and  asked  abruptly:    "Which  is  Mr.  Hood,  if 
you  please?" 

Louis  Hood  stepped  forward,  and  the  inspector 
eyed  him  earnestly.  What  the  inspector  saw  was  a 
tall,  slender,  well-knit  man,  in  his  early  prime,  his 
lithe,  sinewy  figure  and  broad,  square  shoulders 
assorting  well  with  the  rough  shooting  coat,  heavy 
cord  riding  breeches,  and  high  leather  shoe-packs 
which  he  wore,  since  he  was  ready  dressed  for  the 
fishing  trip  which  had  been  so  tragically  interrupted. 
His  face  was  rather  long,  the  bones  well  articulated, 
the  features  clearly  cut,  but  somewhat  irregular. 
His  mouth  was  shaded  by  a  small,  dark  moustache. 
His  thick,  straight  hair,  dark  also,  save  for  a  slight 
trace  of  gray  at  the  temples,  was  cut  short,  showing 
a  crisp  angle  above  the  well-set  ears.  Under  his  arm 
he  carried  an  old,  soft  felt  hat,  around  the  crown 
of  which  was  twisted  a  leader  with  two  or  three 
brightly  coloured  trout-flies.  He  returned  the  in- 
spector's gaze  steadily,  though  behind  his  deeply 
shadowed  eyes  there  lurked  an  expression  which  the 
elderly  police  officer  found  it  difficult  to  fathom. 

There  had  been  but  an  instant's  pause.  The  in- 
spector spoke  again. 

"Tell  me  all  you  know  of  this,"  he  said,  crisply, 
indicating,  with  a  slight  gesture  of  his  left  hand,  the 
tragic  figure  at  his  feet.  "Who  he  was;  how  he 
came  to  be  here;  how  the  body  was  found — and  all 
the  rest." 


22  Q.  E.  D. 

"He  called  himself — Walter  Brown,"  Hood  an- 
swered, slowly. 

"Called  himself?"  repeated  the  inspector  with  a 
sharp,  sidelong  upward  glance.  "Then  he  isn't  a 
friend  of  yours?" 

"I  knew  him  years  ago,"  said  Hood,  hesitatingly. 
"He—  "  and  stopped. 

The  inspector  waited  a  moment  for  him  to  go  on, 
but  as  he  remained  silent,  the  inspector  only  said: 
"Hm-m,"  and  looked  down  again  at  the  body,  his 
puzzled  frown  deepening. 

"Anybody  else  here  know  him?"  he  asked  at 
length,  raising  his  head  suddenly  and  glancing  from 
one  to  the  other. 

A  shake  of  the  head  was  the  only  reply.  He 
turned  back  to  Louis  Hood.  "I'll  have  to  ask  you 
for  more  particulars  a  little  later,  Mr.  Hood,"  he 
said.  "Now,  who  found  the  body?  When  and  how 
was  it  discovered?" 

Hood  answered  quickly  and  readily:  "My  friend 
Mr.  Carlisle,"  indicating  with  a  motion  of  his  hand, 
"and  Mr.  Kent  and  Mr.  Clancy  found  the  poor 
fellow.  I  was  in  the  house." 

"Just  so,"  said  the  inspector,  acknowledging  the 
introductions  with  a  curt  nod.  "  My  name's  Winkle. 
And  now  we  know  each  other."  He  took  in  the  three 
men  with  a  swift,  appraising  glance  which  came  to 
rest  on  Peter.  "It  was  you,"  he  said,  with  a  queer 
little  stabbing  motion  of  his  blunt  forefinger,  "it 


CLANCY  PUZZLES  THE  INSPECTOR    23 

was  you  that  met  me  at  the  steps  over  there,  and  told 
me  to  come  along  close  to  the  house.  Why  was 
that?"  and  he  threw  up  his  head,  raised  his  bald 
eyebrows,  and  favoured  Clancy  with  a  piercing 
look. 

"I  thought,"  said  Peter,  diffidently,  "if  there  was 
any  question  raised  as  to  whether  it  was  murder  or 
suicide,  that  you  ought  to  see  for  yourself  what  was 
implied  by  the  footprints  in  the  snow  near  the 
body.  We've  kept  as  clear  as  we  could." 

"Very  well  thought  of.  Very  well  thought  of," 
said  the  inspector,  with  another  sharp  glance. 
"Now : 

"If  you'll  come  a  little  this  way,"  said  Peter, 
"I'll  show  you  what  was  here  when  we  came,"  and 
he  led  the  inspector  back  across  the  terrace  to  the 
house  door,  keeping  in  the  track  which  had  been 
made  by  the  several  passing  feet,  and  which  curved 
toward  the  west,  as  has  already  been  stated,  and  then 
followed  eastward,  straight  along  the  house  front. 

After  they  had  passed  the  door,  he  proceeded  a 
half-dozen  paces  in  the  direction  of  the  driveway. 
Then  he  stopped  and  pointed  down  at  his  feet.  The 
other  men,  who  had  followed  Clancy  and  the  in- 
spector, stopped  also,  and  leaning  forward,  followed 
Clancy's  statements  with  breathless  interest. 

"When  we  reached  here,"  said  Clancy,  impres- 
sively, "except  for  a  slightly  trodden  path  along  the 
back  of  the  terrace,  here  where  we  stand,  this  one 


24  Q.  E.  D. 

line  of  footprints,  running,  as  you  see,  in  a  diagonal 
line  straight  to  the  body,  was  absolutely  the  only 
mark  in  the  snow." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  inspector,  straightening 
suddenly,  and  regarding  Peter  with  surprise  not  un- 
mixed with  incredulity.  "That's  impossible!  There 
must  have  been 

"Why,  sir,"  broke  in  Doctor  Moore,  leaning  past 
the  others  to  get  a  better  view  of  Peter,  "this  man, 
Brown,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  was  killed.  Mur- 
dered. I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation  on  it! 
He  might  have  made  the  wound  in  his  throat  him- 
self, I  grant  you,  and  if  so  the  weapon  will  be  close 
at  hand;  for,  though  the  cut  was  not  very  deep,  it 
was  deep  enough  to  open  the  jugular  vein,  and  he 
must  have  died  from  it  very  soon,  if  that  were  the 
cause  of  death.  But  it  wasn't.  He  died  instantly— 
and  from  a  broken  neck.  Now  don't  tell  me  a  man 
could  break  his  own  neck  in  a  case  like  this.  It  isn't 
possible.  There  must  have  been  a  terrible  struggle 
with  someone  who  knew  all  the  tricks  of  wrestling, 
and- 

"You  can  see  for  yourself,"  interrupted  Peter, 
quietly,  "that  there  are  no  marks  of  a  struggle 
near  the  body.  There  are  only  our  own  footprints, 
and  I've  made  it  a  point  to  keep  all  those  on  the  far 
side,  you  will  remember.  None  of  them  were  there 
when  Mr.  Hood  switched  on  the  lights  as  he  came 
out  of  the  house.  That  was  just  at  the  instant  that 


CLANCY  PUZZLES  THE  INSPECTOR    25 

we  discovered  the  body.  The  body  lay  just  as  it  had 
fallen,  in  a  smooth  sheet  of  unmarked,  undisturbed 
snow.  This  line  of  footprints,"  he  pointed  again, 
"led  to  it,  and  there  was  nothing  else.  Absolutely 
nothing  else.  It  was  the  first  thing  that  caught  my 
eye,  and  I  had  no  doubt,  at  that  time,  that  it  was  a 
case  of  suicide.  It  was  merely  a  natural  desire  to 
preserve  the  proof  that  made  me  caution  every  one 
who  approached  the  body  to  go  wide  of  it,  and  keep 
off  to  the  right." 

"Well,"  said  Inspector  Winkle,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  and  still  regarding  Peter  fixedly,  "this  cer- 
tainly beats  anything  I  ever  heard!" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  and  muttered  something 
about  impossibilities  never  happening.  The  rest  pre- 
served a  tense  silence. 

"You've  noticed,  of  course,  Inspector,"  said  Peter, 
after  a  slight  pause,  "that  whoever  made  this  line  of 
footprints  was  running." 

"Uh-h-m-m,  yes,"  replied  Winkle,  pushing  up  his 
cap  to  wipe  his  forehead,  and  bending  down  again. 
"I  see  what  you  mean.  Marks  of  the  two  feet 
here  and  just  the  toes  from  there  on.  Hum,  yes. 
And  the  steps  are  long.  Running —  Yes,  of 

course And  he  came  from  that  direction" — 

he  pointed  toward  the  end  of  the  terrace  nearest  the 
waiting  automobile — "and  ran  straight  from  this 
point  toward  the  middle  steps.  Apparently  he 
didn't  go  to  the  house.  Did  you  know  any  one  was 


26  Q.  E.  D. 

here,  Mr.  Hood?"  The  inspector  turned  quickly 
as  he  said  this,  and  glanced  sharply  at  Louis 
Hood. 

"Not — not  then,"  answered  Hood.  "Walter- 
Brown  was  here  earlier  in  the  evening."  More  than 
one  of  the  eager  listeners  noted  the  slight  pause  be- 
tween the  two  names,  and  the  faint  air  of  constraint 
with  which  the  reply  was  given. 

"And  came  back?"  asked  the  inspector. 

"I  didn't  know  he  came  back,"  answered  Hood,  a 
trifle  more  readily. 

"Hum,"  said  Winkle.  "Then  whose  footprints 
are  these  ? " 

"I  think  I  can  answer  that,"  said  Peter.  "Of 
course  we  can't  be  sure  until  after  the  coroner's  been 
here,  but  I  measured  as  well  as  I  could,  and  I  should 
say,  without  doubt,  that  they  were  made  by  the  man 
who  lies  dead  there." 

The  inspector  regarded  Peter  curiously  through 
half-closed  eyes. 

"We'll  make  sure  of  that  after  the  coroner  has  been 
here,"  he  said,  slowly.  "But  if  the  man  went  upon 
his  own  feet  to  the  place  where  he  lies,  unless  he  was 
killed  somewhere  else  and  the  body  carried  there,  I 
agree  with  Doctor  Moore — there  must  have  been 
other  footprints." 

"There  weren't,"  asserted  Clancy,  firmly.  "That 
I  can  swear  to."  Then  seeing  the  continued  doubt 
in  the  inspector's  eyes,  he  turned  to  Harrison  Car- 


CLANCY  PUZZLES  THE  INSPECTOR    27 

lisle.  "  Didn't  you  notice,  Harry  ? "  he  asked,  eagerly ; 
"didn't  it  strike  you?" 

"Why — why,  yes,"  said  Carlisle,  excitedly.  "When 
you  called  to  us  to  go  wide,  I  got  you  right  away. 
Sportsman's  instinct — followed  so  many  game  tracks 
in  the  snow,  I  suppose.  I  saw  why  at  once,  and  I'm 
sure  there  weren't  any  tracks  but  these  and  our  own 
on  that  part  of  the  terrace." 

"Were  you  sharp  enough  to  notice  it,  too,  Mr. 
Hood  ? "  asked  Inspector  Winkle,  with  a  sidelong  look. 

Louis  Hood  shook  his  head. 

"I  was  too  much  excited  and  concerned,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  thought  only 

"And  you,  Mr.  Kent?"  asked  the  inspector. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  about  footprints  at  a  time  like 
that,"  said  Kent,  nervously.  "This  kind  of  thing  is 
— well,  rather  awful,  don't  you  know.  I  was  con- 
siderably upset,"  and  indeed  he  did  look  white  and 
shaken.  "The  others  were  ahead  of  me,  and  I 
didn't  think- 

The  inspector  bit  his  lip,  and  looked  at  the  doctor. 
The  doctor  looked  at  the  inspector  and  shook  his 
head. 

"Well,"  said  Winkle,  doubtfully,  "it  looks  like  a 
puzzling  case.  By  your  leave,  gentlemen,"  and  he 
passed  them  and  went  on  to  the  house  entrance. 
Here  he  paused  and  waited  for  the  others,  who  were 
not  slow  in  following. 

He  addressed  himself  again  to  Clancy. 


28  Q.  E.  D. 

"Here,"  he  said,  standing  on  the  doorstep,  with 
his  back  to  the  door,  "you  were  sharp  enough  to 
bring  us  all  around  to  the  right  there — but  here's 
one  track  going  straight  from  this  door  to  the  body. 
Whose  is  that?"  and  his  glance  was  never  keener 
than  when  he  put  the  question. 

"I  think  it  must  be  mine,"  said  Louis  Hood  at 
once.  "I  know  I'd  almost  reached  poor  Walter  before 
Mr.  Clancy  stopped  me." 

"Ah,"  said  Inspector  Winkle.  "Ah,  yes,  I  see. 
Now  would  you  mind,  just  as  matter  of  form,  step- 
ping into  a  couple  of  those  marks  to  make  sure? 
Just  as  a  matter  of  form,  you  understand.  Ah— 
thank  you.  Yes.  They  would  appear  to  be  yours. 
Yes,  of  course.  You  ran  straight  down.  Naturally. 
Your  own  house.  Such  a  startling  occurrence. 
Naturally " 

There  followed  a  moment  of  complete  silence. 
Then  the  doctor  cleared  his  throat  and  said:  "I 
still  maintain  that  that  man's  injuries  couldn't  have 
been  self-inflicted.  There  must  have  been  someone 
with  him,  and 

"Well,  if  there  was,"  Clancy  interrupted,  some- 
what heatedly,  "one  of  them  must  have  had  wings. 
At  least  I  can  swear  he  didn't  set  foot  on  the  terrace 
any  nearer  than  the  spot  where  we  now  stand,  and 
I'll  be  glad  to  take  my  oath  on  it  at  the  inquest.  I've 
made  a  pretty  careful  diagram,  Inspector " 

"What!    Already?"  broke  in  Winkle. 


CLANCY  PUZZLES  THE  INSPECTOR  ^29 

"Yes.  The  measurements  are  accurate  from 
here  to  where  the  line  of  footprints  starts  and  from 
here  to  the  body.  I'd  like  now  to  make  sure  of  the 
length  of  the  stride,  and  all  that.  Didn't  want  to 
do  it  before  you  could  see  it  for  yourself,  but  the  snow 
may  go  off  before  morning,  it's  so  much  warmer, 
and " 

"Look  here,"  interrupted  the  inspector,  as  if 
struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  "did  I  understand  your 
name  was  Clancy?  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal 
about  this  business.  It's  been  puzzling  me  all  the 
evening.  You  aren't — a  man  as  young  as  you — you 
can't  be  Peter  Clancy,  the  detective!" 

"That's  my  name  and  business,"  admitted  Peter, 
quietly,  smiling  a  little  at  the  older  man's  excitement. 

The  inspector  held  out  his  hand. 

"Well,  I'm  silre  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Peter 
Clancy,"  he  said,  heartily.  "I've  heard  enough 
about  you.  Knew  your  partner  O'Malley  years 
ago.  Are  we  to  have  the  benefit  of  your  experience 
in  this?"  A  slight  tone  of  jealousy  crept  into  the 
inspector's  voice.  Peter  was  quick  to  notice  it. 

"It's  not  my  case  at  all,  Inspector,"  he  answered, 
cordially.  "It's  all  up  to  you.  I  just  thought  I'd 
put  you  wise  to  a  few  things,  and  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  stay  for  the  inquest,  since  Mr.  Carlisle  and  I  found 
the  body.  But  after  that  I'm  through." 

"I  see,"  said  the  inspector,  his  good  nature  en- 
tirely restored.  "Strange  you  happened  to  be  here, 


30  Q.  E.  D. 

wasn't  it  ?  How  is  it  that  you're  in  this  part  of  the 
country?  And  who'd  have  expected  to  see  a  New 
York  detective  in  a  rig  like  that  ? "  He  grinned  as  he 
looked  at  Peter's  fishing  clothes. 

Peter  explained  in  as  few  words  as  possible.  The 
two  policemen  who  were  stationed  not  far  away 
listened  eagerly.  Louis  Hood  stood  a  little  apart 
with  arms  folded  across  his  breast,  one  hand  gripping 
his  narrow  chin,  his  head  bent  in  deep  thought. 
Robert  Kent  touched  Carlisle's  arm. 

"Your  friend  Clancy  is  the  famous  Peter  Clancy?" 
he  questioned  in  a  low  voice,  so  as  not  to  interrupt 
the  conversation  of  the  two  professionals.  "You 
didn't  tell  me.  How  very  interesting — and  oppor- 
tune." 

"Yes,"  answered  Harrison,  in  the  same  low 
tone,  "but  I  don't  think  Peter'll  let  himself  get 
mixed  up  in  this.  The  boy's  worn  out  and  needs  a 
rest.  Oh!  It's  a  frightful  thing  altogether.  I 
wonder 

But  what  Harrison  Carlisle  wondered  was  never 
to  be  known,  for  at  that  moment  the  coroner  drove  up 
in  a  small  car,  and  the  group  in  the  middle  of  the 
terrace  broke  up  and  straggled  out  to  receive  him, 
Inspector  Winkle  in  the  lead. 

The  coroner  was  a  round  apple-faced  man  with 
prematurely  white  hair  and  a  benignant  expression. 
He  had  been  called  away  from  a  small  evening  party 
of  old  cronies  and  was  in  a  hurry  to  return  to  them. 


CLANCY  PUZZLES  THE  INSPECTOR    31 

If  the  dead  man  had  been  one  of  the  old  county 
residents  he  would  have  been  more  concerned,  for  he 
prided  himself  on  his  knowledge  of,  and  recognition 
by  the  old  families  of  that  section,  but  since  the  man 
was  reported  a  stranger  in  those  parts,  he  would 
have  been  glad  if  it  had  been  possible  to  put  off  the 
whole  affair  till  the  morrow. 

Since  that  could  not  be,  he  contented  himself 
with  a  quick  though  careful  survey  of  the  body, 
listened  intently  to  the  inspector's  explanations  of 
how  and  when  it  had  been  found,  and  gave  permis- 
sion for  its  more  thorough  examination. 

Doctor  Moore  and  the  inspector  bent  again  above 
it.  The  doctor  verified  his  conclusions  in  a  few 
minutes,  but  the  inspector  took  rather  longer. 
He  went  through  the  dead  man's  pockets  carefully, 
quickly  and  secretly  transferring  their  contents  to 
his  own.  Peter,  try  as  he  might,  could  not  see  what 
the  articles  were,  for  the  inspector  was  between  him 
and  the  body,  and  his  bulk  effectually  concealed 
them  from  view. 

When  he  had  finished  Winkle  began  with  carefully 
groping  fingers  to  search  on  each  side  of  the  body, 
holding  a  pocket  flashlight  close  to  the  ground.  His 
lack  of  skill  nearly  drove  Clancy  distracted,  and  after 
a  moment's  impatient  observation,  he  offered  to  as- 
sist the  inspector  in  his  search. 

Winkle  gave  his  assent,  but  without  particular 
enthusiasm,  and  together  they  investigated  every 


32  Q.  E.  D. 

inch  of  snow  for  several  yards  around.  When  they 
had  made  a  complete  circuit  both  men  regained  their 
feet,  and  the  inspector  turned  to  the  coroner  with  a 
shake  of  his  head. 

"No  weapon,"  he  said  in  a  grave  voice,  "no  knife — 
nothing.     I  guess  that  settles  it  in  spite  of— 

The  coroner  nodded.  "I  guess  so,  Jim.  Looks 
bad,  doesn't  it?  Death  instantaneous,  eh,  Doctor? 
And  weapon  gone.  Hm-m.  Well,  I  think  you  won't 
need  me  any  longer,  Jim,"  he  concluded  after  ex- 
changing a  few  more  words  with  the  inspector.  "I 
expect  to  be  able  to  call  the  inquest  by  three  o'clock 
to-morrow,  but  I'll  'phone  you.  I'll  have  to  ask  you 
gentlemen  to  attend  as  a  formality,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  Hood  and  his  friends.  "Just  a  formality, 
just  a  formality.  And  you,  too,  Doctor  Moore, 
if  you  please,  unless  you'd  rather  send  in  a  written 
statement.  Good-night,  gentlemen.  Good-night,  In- 
spector," and  the  coroner  hurried  off  to  resume  the 
game  of  whist  which  had  been  so  rudely  interrupted. 


CHAPTER  IV 
INSPECTOR  WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE 

WHEN  the  low,  rattling  throb  of  the  coroner's 
little  car  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  In- 
spector Winkle  turned  back  to  the  little  group  which 
awaited  him  on  the  terrace. 

The  moon  had  ridden  high  in  the  still,  pale  sky. 
The  air  was  soft  and  mild.  The  breeze  sighed  and 
whispered  in  the  tops  of  the  tall,  dark  pine  trees  which 
encircled  the  wide  lawn,  but  the  leaves  of  the  rhodo- 
dendron thicket  were  so  still  that  they  seemed  a 
painted  border  of  black  upon  the  white  sheet  of 
faintly  glimmering  snow.  The  row  of  cedars  along 
the  terrace  face  stood  like  tall  sentinels,  guarding  the 
secret  which  lay  between  them.  They  were  hardly 
more  silent  than  the  little  cluster  of  men  who  waited 
before  the  door  of  the  old  gray  house. 

The  good  doctor  had  with  his  own  hand  composed 
the  limbs  of  the  poor  wrecked  body,  and  with  the 
help  of  the  two  policemen  and  Peter  Clancy  had 
lifted  it  so  that  it  now  lay  stiff  and  straight  upon  the 
snow-covered  bricks  of  the  terrace. 

Clancy  stood  beside  it  looking  quietly  down.  The 
man  had  been  tall,  well  above  the  average  height, 

33 


34  Q.  E.  D. 

he  saw,  and  very  thin,  though  his  shoulders  were 
broad  and  well  proportioned.  Dressed  in  a  loose, 
short,  heavy  coat,  trousers  tucked  into  high  boots, 
he  had  the  look  of  a  Westerner,  perhaps,  or  at  least 
of  a  man  unused  to  city  life.  The  face  was  deadly 
pale,  with  an  even  sickly  pallor  which  consorted 
strangely  with  his  rough  out-of-door  garb.  The 
features  were  spirited  and  fine,  the  nose  thin  and 
aristocratic,  but  the  mouth  and  chin  indicated  a 
passionate  temperament  coupled  with  a  weak  will. 
Though  the  face  was  comparatively  young,  the  hair, 
cropped  very  short,  was  snowy  white. 

One  of  the  policemen  had  picked  up  a  soft  felt  hat, 
which  had  fallen  far  over  to  the  right,  and  now 
tendered  it  to  the  inspector,  who  received  it  with  a 
nod. 

"You  and  Peabody  stay  out  here,  Allen,"  said 
Inspector  Winkle.  "They'll  be  here  pretty  soon  to 
take  him  away.  Let  me  know  when  they  come. 
Now,  Mr.  Hood,  with  your  permission,  we'll  go  in- 
side. I'd  like  to  ask  a  few  more  questions  of  you  and 
your  friends,  and  I  think  we'd  all  be  more  comfort- 
able— somewhere  else.  I  won't  need  you  any  fur- 
ther, Doctor  Moore,  and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you 
for  coming  so  promptly,"  and  Winkle  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I'd  just  as  soon  stay,  Inspector,  if  you  think  I 
could  be  of  service,"  said  the  doctor,  hesitatingly. 
He  was  a  man  of  considerable  intelligence,  and  had 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        35 

his  full  share  of  human  curiosity,  and  the  present 
case,  in  view  of  the  statements  of  the  New  York  de- 
tective, presented  many  points  of  exceptional  inter- 
est. There  were  a  lot  of  things  about  it  he  would 
be  glad  to  know,  but  the  inspector  said:  "No, 
no.  There's  no  reason  for  keeping  you  any  longer. 
You'll  have  a  chance  to  prove  your  points  at  the  in- 
quest," and  the  doctor  was  forced,  reluctantly,  to 
withdraw. 

When  he  had  done  so,  the  small  party  of  men 
entered  the  wide  door  of  the  house,  Louis  Hood  lead- 
ing the  way. 

The  big  square  hall  presented  an  appearance  of 
silence  and  desertion  which  struck  coldly  on  the  eye 
and  ear.  The  large  pictures  hanging  about  the  walls 
were  covered  with  white  cloths  and  made  little  break, 
save  for  their  gray  shadows,  against  the  whiteness 
of  the  panels.  The  two  large  rooms  which  opened 
out,  one  on  either  hand,  were  likewise  swathed 
and  sheeted,  and  looked  ghostly  in  the  light  which 
filtered  dimly  in  from  the  terrace,  through  drawn 
blinds.  At  the  back  of  the  hall  a  wide  staircase 
rose  to  a  landing  from  which  it  turned  and  vanished 
in  the  upper  shadows. 

"You'll  find  it  more  comfortable  out  here,"  said 
Louis  Hood,  opening  a  small  door  at  the  left,  under 
the  landing.  "This  part  of  the  house  has  been 
closed  since  my  mother's  death.  There's  a  fire  in 
the  housekeeper's  room,  however." 


36  Q.  E.  D. 

The  others  followed  in  silence.  They  passed 
through  a  short  passage  guarded  by  double  baize- 
covered  doors,  and  reached  a  small,  plain,  cheery 
room,  well  warmed  and  lighted.  There  were  signs  of 
constant  occupancy  all  about  it.  A  sewing  ma- 
chine stood  in  one  corner  with  a  darning  basket  on 
its  closed  top.  On  the  small  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  were  the  remains  of  a  hasty  meal.  It 
had  been  neatly  laid  out  for  one  person,  though 
an  extra  glass,  a  few  crumbs,  and  a  chair  half 
drawn  up  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  seemed 
to  indicate  that  more  than  one  person  had  partaken 
of  it. 

These,  and  other  details  of  slight  disorder,  Peter 
Clancy  noted  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room,  but 
what  impression,  if  any,  they  made  upon  the  inspec- 
tor, he  could  not  determine,  for  the  face  of  Inspec- 
tor Winkle  was  perfectly  noncommittal  as  he  drew 
up  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  at  one  of  the  cleared 
sides  of  the  table. 

"Now,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Hood,  we'll  get  down  to 
brass  tacks,"  he  said,  drawing  out  a  notebook.  "In 
the  first  place,  is  there  any  one  else  in  the  house?" 

Louis  Hood  was  standing  before  him,  leaning  on  a 
high  mantel  shelf.  Carlisle  had  perched  himself  on 
the  arm  of  an  old  horsehair  sofa  which  stood  against 
the  wall  and  was  listening  eagerly.  Peter  had  seated 
himself  at  the  end  of  the  room  between  the  windows 
which  opened  toward  the  west.  ("The  same  being 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        37 

the  reason  why  we  saw  no  light,"  he  said  to  him- 
self.) Only  Robert  Kent  moved  about  restlessly,  as  if 
wishing  that  the  formalities  might  soon  be  over  so 
that  they  could  all  return  to  the  comforts  and  peace 
of  ordinary  existence. 

"No,  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  but  ourselves," 
said  Hood,  replying  to  the  inspector's  question. 
"The  caretakers,  a  man  and  his  wife,  'phoned  in  to 
me  in  New  York  this  morning  asking  permission  to  go 
into  town  for  the  night.  I  was  only  stopping  to 

change  my  clothes  and  to  get  my  fishing  tackle  which 

» 
was  here 

"And  your  supper suggested  Inspector 

Winkle. 

"And  my  supper,  as  you  say,"  Hood  responded. 

Harrison  Carlisle  looked  a  little  surprised.  Kent 
leaned  over  his  shoulder  and  whispered:  "If  he  was 
in  Fern  Hills  at  dinner  time,  why  didn't  he  come  over 
to  your  house,  as  he  promised?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Harrison  answered,  hastily.  " He 
'phoned  from  town  that  he  couldn't  get  there  in 
time,  and  I  supposed—  But  listen." 

The  inspector  had  asked  another  question  and 
Hood  was  replying. 

"I  reached  here  at  about  six.  The  caretakers  had 
already  gone,  but  it  didn't  matter,  as  I  always  have 
the  key  to  the  front  door." 

"  You  were  alone  ? " 

"Yes." 


38  Q.  E.  D. 

"I  think  you  said  that  this  man,  Walter  Brown, 
was  here  earlier  in  the  evening.  At  what  time  was 
that?" 

"He  came  very  soon  after  I  did." 

All  of  Hood's  answers  were  given  in  a  low,  firm 
voice,  but  there  was  an  air  of  unrest  about  him,  an 
indefinable  uncertainty  which  did  not  escape  the 
sharp  eyes  of  Peter  Clancy. 

"Since  you  aren't  living  here,  I  naturally  suppose 
he  came  by  appointment,"  said  Inspector  Winkle, 
watching  Hood's  face  narrowly. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  Hood  responded,  as  quietly 
as  before. 

"What  was  his  business  with  you,  Mr.  Hood? 
Forgive  me  if  I  seem  inquisitive,  but,  as  a  lawyer, 
you  must  understand  that  it's  necessary  for  me 
to  find  out  all  I  can  about  the  man." 

"I  quite  understand  your  position,  Inspector," 
said  Hood,  with  every  appearance  of  grave  sin- 
cerity, "and  I  am  glad  to  help  you  all  I  can.  The 
man  was  poor  and  needy  and  I  wanted  to  see  him 
and  find  out  how  I  could  best  assist  him." 

"Why,  then,  didn't  you  have  him  come  to  your 
office  in  town?" 

"He  was  already  in  Fern  Hills.  He  didn't  know 
that  the  house  was  closed,  and  that  I  was  living 
in  town.  He  'phoned  my  office  from  the  village, 
and  as  I  was  coming  out  in  any  case,  I  told  him  to 
wait  here." 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        39 

"But  he  evidently  didn't  wait  here,  since  he 
came  after  you  did,"  objected  the  inspector. 

"I  can't  quite  see  that  it  matters,"  said  Hood 
with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "I  suppose  he  must 
have  waited  somewhere  in  the  village.  At  any 
rate,  he  was  here  soon  after  six.  We  discussed  his 
affairs,  I  helped  him  as  much  as  I  could,  and " 

Inspector  Winkle  held  up  his  hand. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  said,  and  feeling  in  the 
pocket  in  which  he  had  placed  the  articles  taken 
from  the  pockets  of  the  dead  man,  he  drew  out  a 
small,  folded  oblong  of  greenish  paper,  and  laid  it 
on  the  table.  He  opened  it  deliberately,  adjusted 
his  glasses,  nodded  slightly  as  if  confirming  a  previous 
observation,  and  remarked  in  a  cordial  tone,  "I 
should  say  you  were  a  very  good  man  to  appeal  to 
in  case  of  need,  Mr.  Hood.  Very  generous,  very 
generous,  indeed,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  so.  It 
isn't  everyone  who'd  give  even  a  hundred  dollars 
to  a  man  he  knew  only  slightly,  or  hadn't  seen  for 
a  long  time."  Though  he  spoke  pleasantly  there 
was  a  faint  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone  which 
nettled  Harrison  Carlisle  and  roused  him  to  the 
defence  of  his  friend. 

"A  hundred  dollars  isn't  such  a  hell  of  a  lot  of 
money,"  he  asserted,  hotly,  for  his  heart  was  as 
warm  and  generous  as  his  bank  account  was  long. 
"Anybody'd  do  that  much  to  help  a  poor  devil 
out  of  a  mess." 


40  Q.  E.  D. 

"Very  true,  very  true,  perhaps,  Mr.  Carlisle." 
Winkle  glanced  around,  frowning  at  the  interruption. 
"But  as  it  happens,  this  check  is  for  a  thousand." 

Harrison  Carlisle  started  a  little  and  looked 
quickly  across  at  Louis  Hood.  Kent  stopped  in 
his  aimless  ramble  about  the  room  and,  after  a  swift 
sidelong  glance  at  Hood,  remained  immovable,  his 
gaze  resting  on  the  floor.  With  brows  drawn  to- 
gether, he  seemed  lost  in  puzzled  contemplation. 
Only  Peter  Clancy  appeared  unaffected  by  the 
startling  announcement.  He  sat,  as  he  had  sat 
all  along,  regarding  all  the  actors  in  the  scene  with 
impartial,  silent  interest. 

Winkle  continued  without  pause.  He  spoke 
slowly,  consideringly:  "Hm-m.  Yes.  A  thousand 
dollars  is  quite  a  sum  of  money  to  give,  off  hand. 
It  almost  seems,  to  an  impartial  observer,  as  if  there 
must  have  been  some  claim — of  relationship,  per- 
haps— a  secret  understanding — or  something.  But 
that's  impossible,  of  course.  You  said,  I  think,  Mr. 
Hood,  that  Walter  Brown  had  no  special  claim  on 
you,  that  you  hardly  knew  him."  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  twirled  his  pencil  slowly  round 
and  round  between  his  fingers,  looking  at  Hood  all 
the  time. 

There  was  a  short  silence  in  which  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  on  the  mantel  sounded  loud  and  harsh. 
Then  Hood  stirred  a  little  and  said:  "It  wouldn't, 
perhaps,  be  exact  to  say  that  I  knew  him  only 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        41 

slightly,  though  I've  seen  nothing  of  him  for — for 
a  long  time.  I  knew  him  well  when  we  were  boys. 
I  was  very  glad  to  be  of  assistance  to  him." 

"After  all,  a  thousand  dollars  isn't  such  an  awful 
lot  of  money  to  help  out  an  old  friend,"  grunted 
Harrison  Carlisle,  though  his  tone  was  less  sure  and 
open  than  it  had  been. 

Winkle  frowned  again  at  the  repeated  interruption, 
but  when  he  spoke  to  Hood  there  was  no  trace  of 
irritation  in  his  voice. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me,  in  your  own  way,  just 
all  you  know  of  this  man  Brown,"  he  said.  "I 
rather  got  the  idea  from  something  you  let  drop  that 
possibly  that  wasn't  his  right  name.  'Called  him- 
self Walter  Brown,'  you  said,  rather  implying " 

"That  was  just  an  expression,"  interrupted  Hood. 
"His  name  was  Brown,  Walter  Brown.  You'll  see 
that  the  check  was  made  out  to  his  order." 

Clancy,  glancing  up  at  this,  caught  a  speculative 
look  in  Harrison  Carlisle's  eye.  Kent  also  seemed 
struck  by  the  thought  which  was  in  the  mind  of 
each.  He  raised  his  eyes  from  their  long  contem- 
plation of  the  floor,  gazing  at  Hood  with  peculiar 
interest.  Twice,  in  their  hearing,  Hood  had  said 
that  the  man  "called  himself  Walter  Brown." 
Why  should  he  have  used  those  ambiguous  words 
at  all  if  Walter  Brown  was  really  the  man's  name? 

The  inspector,  however,  appeared  quite  satisfied. 
Hood  had  continued  speaking,  still  with  that  vague 


42  Q.  E.  D. 

almost  imperceptible  note  of  hesitation  in  his  voice. 
"I  don't  think  there  is  much  more  that  I  can  tell 
you  about  him.  He  went  West  several  years  ago 
and  only  returned  to-day.  In  fact,  he  stopped 
off  at  Newark  from  the  Chicago  train  and  came 
back  here." 

"Has  he  any  relations  living?"  asked  the  in- 
spector as  Hood  paused. 

"I  think  very  few — and  I  know  he  felt  they 
were  dead  to  him,"  replied  Hood,  gravely. 

"Did  any  one  besides  yourself  know  that  he  was 
here?" 

"I  should  say  emphatically  not,"  said  Hood 
with  conviction. 

"Not  the  caretakers?" 

"I  had  it  on  his  own  statement  that  he  didn't 
know  there  was  any  one  in  the  house.  He  came  in 
through  the  front  drive,  found  the  house  closed  and 
apparently  deserted,  and  didn't  even  ring  the  bell." 

"But  the  caretakers  were  here  then?" 

"Yes,  for  I  'phoned  them  just  before  I  called 
you,  Harry,  to  ask  them  to  leave  out  something 
for  me  to  eat  since  I  realized  I  would  be  late  if 
I  tried  to  dine  with  you.  They  were  coming  to 
town  on  the  5:17  train  and  must  have  left  soon 
after." 

"Then  they  might  have  seen  Brown,  perhaps, 
without  his  seeing  them." 

"I  should  think  it  very  unlikely.     As  you  see, 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        43 

this  wing  is  quite  cut  off  from  the  main  house  and 
they  would  have  had  no  particular  business  there 
at  that  time  of  day.  The  kitchen  has  its  own 
drive  which  comes  out  quite  at  the  other  end  of 
the  place  in  the  direction  of  Melbrook.  They 
usually  take  the  train  there,  so  they  wouldn't  have 
gone  through  the  main  drive  when  they  left,  and 
I  don't  believe— 

"Probably  of  no  importance,  anyway,"  said 
Winkle,  cutting  him  short.  "Now  just  what  time 
did  Brown  leave  the  house,  do  you  know?" 

"It  was  nearly  seven,  I  think.  In  fact,  I'm  pretty 
sure,  for  I  looked  at  my  watch  a  little  later,  and  it 
was  only  a  few  minutes  after  seven  then." 

Carlisle  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair.  What  had 
Louis  been  doing  all  that  time?  Nearly,  if  not 
quite,  an  hour.  Was  old  Red-top  thinking  of  that, 
too?  And  Kent?  He  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other,  but  though  they  were  both  listening  in- 
tently, their  faces  betrayed  nothing. 

"Where  was  Brown  when  you  saw  him  last?" 
the  inspector  was  asking.  "You  went  to  the  door 
with  him,  of  course?" 

"Why,  no.  As  it  happened,  I  didn't,"  answered 
Hood,  considering  thoughtfully.  "I  went  as  far 
as  the  main  hall  and  put  on  the  light  for  him.  The 
switch  is  just  inside  the  door  of  the  little  passage 
we  came  through  just  now.  We  parted  there  and 
he  went  on  to  the  front  door.  I  heard  him  open  it 


44  Q.  E.  D. 

and  then  I  switched  off  the  light  and  hurried  back 
here  and  up  the  back  stairway  to  the  room  in  which 
I  keep  my  tackle.  I  was  going  on  a  fishing  trip 
with  Mr.  Carlisle  and  didn't  want  to  keep  them 
waiting,  and  I  had  quite  a  good  deal  to  do.  I  was 
only  just  ready  when  they  came — and  found- 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  pushed 
his  fingers  upward  through  his  thick  dark  hair,  grip- 
ping his  temples  between  his  thumb  and  little  finger, 
as  if  his  head  ached  heavily. 

"Come  over  here  and  sit  down,  Louis,"  said 
Harrison  Carlisle,  whose  observant  glance  had  noted 
the  weariness  of  the  gesture. 

He  rose  from  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  crossed  the  room, 
and  with  brusque  tenderness  drew  Louis  Hood  over 
to  the  couch  and  seated  himself  beside  him. 

Just  then  a  faint  though  heavy  footfall  sounded 
through  the  house  and  someone  called  the  inspec- 
tor's name.  He  rose  immediately  and  left  the  room. 
"What's  the  old  fellow  keeping  us  all  this  time 
for?"  asked  Kent,  irritably,  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  closed.  "We've  told  him  all  we  know.  Mr. 
Clancy  may  have  a  professional  interest  in  all  this, 
but  I  can't  see  where  you  and  I  come  in,  Harry. 
Don't  you  think  we  can  be  getting  away  pretty 
soon?  Your  mother  will  be  anxious,  even  though 
you  did  telephone  her.  I  think  we — 

"We're  going  to  wait  and  take  Louis  home  with 
us,  Rob,"  said  Carlisle,  decidedly.  "Mother'd 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        45 

kill  me  if  I  left  him  here  all  alone  to-night.  You 
will  come,  won't  you,  Louis?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Harry."  Hood  seemed 
moved  by  the  kindness  of  his  friend's  tone.  He 
dropped  his  head  upon  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
weariness  and  anxiety  which  spoke  volumes.  The 
bracing  effect  of  the  inspector's  presence  having 
been  removed  the  whole  man  relaxed  for  the  time 
being.  He  seemed  to  shrink  together  inside  his 
clothes,  and  his  voice  was  low  and  troubled  as  he 
continued:  "I  don't  know  what  this  horrible 
business  will  lead  to  and  there's  no  use  in  putting 
off  my  worries  on  any  of  you.  There's  no  reason 
why  I  shouldn't  stay  here  to-night.  Eliza  always 
keeps  a  room  ready  for  me  in  case  I  want  to  spend 
the  night,  and 

Harrison  thought  that  there  was  a  note  of  re- 
luctance in  his  friend's  voice,  a  natural  disinclination 
to  remain  in  the  lonely,  empty  house  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  such  a  hideous  tragedy,  and  he  spoke 
with  cordial,  firm  insistence:  "You're  coming  with 
us,  old  top,"  he  said.  "I  won't  take  'no'  for  an 
answer.  Neither  would  Mother,  if  she  were  here. 
We'll  wait  for  you  if  it  takes  all  night,  won't  we, 
Peter?' 

"You  bet  we  will,"  answered  Clancy,  heartily. 
"You  couldn't  drive  me  away  with  a  gun,  anyhow. 
I  want  to  see  just  what  sort  of  local  talent  you've 
got  out  here,  and  what  our  friend  Winkle  is  going 


46  Q.  E.  D. 

to  make  of  the  case.  He's  no  fool,  Winkle  isn't, 
and  yet  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  particularly  impressed 
with  the  facts  that  seem  most  important  to  my 
mind." 

"You  mean ?"  queried  Hood,  flashing  a  swift 

upward  glance  at  Clancy. 

"I  mean,"  Peter  began,  and  stopped  as  the  sound 
of  footsteps  in  the  passage  came  faintly  to  his  sharp 
ears.  "Here  he  is,"  he  said,  holding  up  his  hand. 
"I'll  tell  you  later." 

The  inspector,  as  he  came  through  the  softly 
closing  door,  glanced  quickly  from  one  face  to  the 
other  as  if  wondering  what  the  friends  had  been 
talking  about  in  his  absence.  He  didn't  mention 
the  cause  of  the  summons  and  neither  did  any  of 
the  four  men  question  him,  but  all  experienced  a 
feeling  of  relief  in  the  knowledge  that  the  fair, 
broad  terrace  was  now  untenanted,  and  that  the 
moon  with  its  clear  light  shone  on  nothing  more 
awful  than  the  stained  and  trampled  snow. 

As  if  the  inspector's  entrance  had  been  a  powerful 
tonic,  Louis  Hood  raised  his  head  alertly  and 
squared  his  shoulders,  bracing  himself  for  the 
questions  which  remained  to  be  answered. 

Inspector  Winkle  seated  himself  in  his  old  place 
beside  the  table,  drawing  his  notebook  out  of  the 
pocket  into  which  he  had  hastily  thrust  it  when  he 
left  the  room.  He  referred  to  some  notes  he  had 
made  in  it. 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE        47 

"So  the  last  you  saw  of  this  Walter  Brown  was 
at  your  own  front  door,  Mr.  Hood,"  he  continued, 
as  if  the  long  series  of  questions  and  answers  had 
been  quite  uninterrupted.  "Am  I  right?"  He 
shifted  his  position  slightly,  turning  sidewise  from 
the  table  so  as  to  face  Hood  squarely. 

"That  was  the  last  I  saw  him  alive,"  replied 
Louis  Hood,  firmly. 

"And  you  were  then  at  the  back  of  the  main  hall?" 

"Yes." 

"You  heard  nothing  after  that?  No  sound  of  a 
struggle?  No  cries?" 

"Nothing,"  Hood  replied  in  the  same  tone  as 
before.  "If  there  was  anything  to  hear  I  might 
very  well  not  have  been  aware  of  it  for,  as  you 
see,  the  house  is  very  long  and  I  went  directly  up 
to  the  storeroom  which  is  on  the  third  floor  at  the 
extreme  north  end.  But  I  imagine  there  was 
nothing.  In  spite  of  Doctor  Moore's  opinion  I  am 
still  confident  that  Walter  died  by  his  own  hand." 

The  inspector  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"I'm  afraid  that  theory  won't  hold  water,  Mr. 
Hood,  though  I  can  understand  that  for  many  rea- 
sons you  would  prefer  to  believe  it." 

"Whether  I  would  prefer  it  or  not,"  interjected 
Hood,  somewhat  sharply,  "is  beside  the  question. 
The  man  had  no  enemies  in  this  part  of  the  country; 
certainly  no  one  knew  he  was  here,  of  that  I  am 
positive.  There  could  have  been  no  motive  for 


48  Q.  E.  D. 

so  hideous  a  crime.     He  had   been  terribly  unfor- 
tunate.    He  was  fearfully  despondent — 

"And  so  you  conclude  that  he  killed  himself?" 
interrupted  Inspector  Winkle,  coolly.  "Killed  him- 
self— with  a  check  for  one  thousand  dollars  in  his 
pocket.  It  isn't  often  done  according  to  my  ex- 
perience. What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Clancy?" 

"I'm  with  Mr.  Hood."  Peter,  thus  appealed  to, 
spoke  for  the  first  time,  with  studied  deliberation. 
"Brown  reached  the  spot  where  we  found  him 
on  his  own  feet.  His  footmarks  in  the  snow  prove 
that  beyond  question.  No  one  else  had  been  any- 
where near  him.  Therefore  he  must  have  made 
away  with  himself." 

He  spoke  with  such  quiet  conviction  that  both 
Carlisle  and  Kent  turned  toward  him  with  a  start. 
Hood  also  looked  at  him  with  surprised  and  hopeful 
eyes.  All  three  had  heard  Clancy  state  distinctly, 
upon  his  first  examination  of  the  body,  that  it  was 
unquestionably  a  case  of  murder.  Why,  then,  this 
sudden  change  of  front?  The  answer  to  the  ob- 
vious query  lay  hidden  behind  the  young  detective's 
frank,  blue,  but  inscrutable  eyes. 

"But  death  was  instantaneous,"  objected  In- 
spector Winkle.  "His  neck  was  broken.  And,  as 
for  the  wound  in  his  throat — we  found  no  knife, 
no  sharp-edged  weapon  of  any  sort — you  know  that 
yourself,  Mr.  Clancy,  since  you  helped  me  look  for  it." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  snow,"  Peter  suggested, 


WINKLE  SPRINGS  A  SURPRISE         49 

"and  a  small  object  like  a  safety  razor  blade,  for 
instance,  might  easily  have  escaped  us.  That  would 
have  been  a  sufficient  weapon  for  the  purpose.  The 
wound  was  sharply  cut  and  not  very  deep." 

"That's  true,"  said  Winkle,  slowly.  "That  much 
is  certainly  true,  but"-  -  he  paused  as  if  to  give 
his  next  words  more  weight —  "how  do  you  account, 
Mr.  Clancy,  for  the  broken  neck?  Eh?  And  why 
do  you  think  a  man  would  kill  himself  with  a  razor 
blade  (which  would  be  awkward  to  carry  unless 
it  was  in  a  case,  and  apparently  it  couldn't  have  been, 
since  none  was  found)  when  he  not  only  had  a  check 
for  one  thousand  dollars  in  his  pocket" — again 
he  paused —  "but  this,  as  well." 

The  inspector's  voice  was  so  full  of  concealed 
triumph  that  the  four  other  occupants  of  the  room 
watched  with  strained  expectancy  while  he  de- 
liberately put  his  hand  in  the  capacious  side  pocket 
of  his  coat.  He  glanced  from  one  tense  face  to 
the  other,  a  slightly  superior  smile  just  bending  up 
the  corners  of  his  wide  mouth,  as  his  eyes  met 
those  of  Peter  Clancy  inquiringly  fixed  upon  him. 

Slowly  he  drew  forth  his  concealed  right  hand  and 
laid  upon  the  table  an  able-looking  Colt's  revolver. 


CHAPTER  V 
'WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET- 


I  FOUND  that  on  the  body,"  the  inspector  ex- 
plained, breaking  the  sudden  silence  which 
ensued  upon  the  unexpected  production  of  the  un- 
looked-for weapon.  "Now  tell  me  if  you  can,  Mr. 
Clancy,"  he  wagged  a  stubby  forefinger,  "why, 
in  Heaven's  name,  a  man  bent  on  suicide  would  cut 
his  throat  with  a  weapon  which  doesn't  exist,  and 
break  his  own  neck,  into  the  bargain — and  all  the 
while  have  a  revolver  handy  in  his  pocket." 

Peter  had  risen  and  was  bending  over  the  inspec- 
tor's shoulder.  Kent  also  had  stepped  forward  and 
kneeling  with  one  knee  on  the  chair  at  the  end  of 
the  table,  leaned  far  over,  looking  at  the  pistol 
with  fascinated  eyes.  Harrison  Carlisle  thought 
Louis  said  something  under  his  breath,  but  he  didn't 
catch  the  words. 

"Have  you  examined  the  gun?"  asked  Clancy, 
quietly,  touching  it  with  his  forefinger.  "It  may 
not  have  been  loaded,  you  see,  and  that  may  ac- 
count  " 

Winkle  grunted,  inarticulately,  and  his  eye- 
brows shot  up.  The  idea  evidently  had  not  occurred 

50 


"WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET "  51 

to  him.  With  the  caution  born  of  long  and  intimate 
experience  of  small  arms  he  immediately  proceeded 
to  break  the  revolver.  As  he  did  so  the  ejector 
performed  its  allotted  function,  the  plunger  shot 
up  and  dropped  again,  four  cartridges  lifted  them- 
selves smoothly  from  the  shining  cylinder,  but 
from  the  fifth  chamber,  like  a  live  thing,  an  empty 
shell  jumped  out  and  fell  with  a  sharp  metallic  ring 
upon  the  table. 

The  inspector,  with  a  muttered  oath  of  surprise, 
reached  out  a  swift  hand  and  clutched  the  tell- 
tale shell  as  it  rolled  away  from  him.  Clancy's 
brows  contracted  in  a  sudden  frown  and  he  sent 
a  quick  sidelong  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  sofa, 
but  said  nothing. 

"By  all  that's  holy!"  exclaimed  the  inspector, 
glancing  from  the  empty  shell  to  the  pistol  and 
back  again.  "One  shot's  been  fired!  Do  you  get 
that?  One  shot's  been  fired,"  he  repeated,  turning 
the  revolver  to  look  into  the  muzzle — "and  re- 
cently, too!  At  least  it's  not  been  cleaned  since! 
Now  what  do  you  make  of  that,  Mr.  Peter  Clancy?" 

"That  one  shot's  been  fired,  and  the  gun  hasn't 
been  cleaned  since,"  agreed  Peter,  quietly.  "Well, 
what  of  it?  What  do  you  make  of  it,  Mr.  Inspector?" 

"Why,  that  the  man  didn't  commit  suicide!" 
cried  Winkle  in  a  raised,  excited  voice.  "He  cer- 
tainly didn't  shoot  himself.  Then  whom  did  he 
shoot,  or  shoot  at  ?  Why,  the  man  who  threatened 


52  Q.  E.  D. 

his  life  and  finally  got  him!  No  question  about  it! 
When  we  find  that  bullet 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  Kent,  now  ashy  pale, 
had  reached  across  the  table  and  touched  his  arm 
with  a  hand  that  shook  with  excitement. 

"Hood  can  explain,  no  doubt,"  he  said  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  emotion,  "and  I  think  he  should 
explain  at  once — for  his  own  sake."  He  swallowed 
as  if  his  mouth  had  suddenly  become  dry.  "If 
you  look  over  there — over  there  in  the  corner  by 
the  window — I  think — I'm  almost  certain — that 
you'll  find  the  missing  bullet." 

With  another  oath  the  inspector  kicked  back 
his  chair  and  lumbered  swiftly  over  to  the  corner 
indicated.  Swift  as  he  was,  Clancy  was  before 
him.  There  was  a  small,  built-in  closet  in  that 
corner,  an  old-fashioned  closet  with  little  square 
glazed  panels  in  the  upper  doors.  In  one  of  these 
panes  was  a  small,  round  hole,  from  which  radiated 
a  number  of  fine  cracks.  Clancy's  quick  eyes  had 
already  discovered  the  shattered  pane,  and  his  hand 
had  pulled  the  door  open  when  Winkle  reached  his 
side.  Upon  a  shelf,  on  a  level  with  the  eye,  was  an 
old  copper  teakettle,  standing  well  back  against  the 
wall.  Clancy  reached  up,  drew  it  forth,  and  handed 
it  to  Winkle  without  a  word.  The  kettle  was  drilled 
through  from  side  to  side. 

Winkle  glanced  quickly  at  it,  handed  it  un- 
ceremoniously to  Peter,  seized  a  chair,  mounted 


"WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET "  53 

upon  it,  and  thrust  his  hand  into  the  cupboard, 
feeling  the  surface  of  the  rear  wall.  In  an  instant 
he  withdrew  his  hand,  took  a  large  knife  from  his 
trousers  pocket,  opened  it,  and  began  to  dig  in  the 
plaster  at  the  back  of  the  closet.  After  a  moment 
something  fell  to  the  shelf  and  rolled  along  it  with 
a  sharp  rattle  which  sounded  loud  in  the  breathless 
silence.  "When  we  find  that  bullet,"  the  inspector 
had  said — "When  we  find  that  bullet,"  he  thought 
again  as  he  stepped  down  from  the  chair  and  turned 
toward  Louis  Hood  with  the  bullet  in  his  hand. 

Hood  had  risen  from  his  seat.  A  dull  flush  stained 
his  pale  cheek.  His  eyes  were  unnaturally  bright 
and  keen.  He  answered  Inspector  Winkle's  in- 
quiring look  as  if  the  old  officer  had  spoken. 

"I  meant  to  tell  you  about  it,  in  any  case,"  he 
said,  hurriedly.  "It  was  one  of  my  reasons  for 
deducing  suicide.  Walter  was  desperate  when  he 
came  to  me.  I  argued  with  him  .  .  .  tried 
to  show  him  that — that  there  was  still  hope  for 
him.  ...  A  new  life".  .  .  The  phrases 
were  quick,  disjointed,  charged  with  deep  and 
apparently  sincere  emotion.  "I  tried  to  show  him 
where  he  had  fallen  short  .  .  .  had  failed. 
God  knows  I  didn't  mean  to  be  hard  on  the  boy. 
But  he  was  more  hopeless — more  desperate  than 
I  realized.  While  I  was  speaking — without  a 
word  of  warning  he  drew  his  pistol  and  levelled 
it — not  at  me!  Oh,  no!  We  had  not  quarrelled. 


54  Q-  E.  D. 

At  himself.  ...  I  struck  quickly — almost  auto- 
matically, I  think,  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  flash  on 
the  revolver  barrel  and  the  flash  of  the  shot  were 
simultaneous,  and  yet  I  had  been  in  time.  The 
bullet  went  over  his  shoulder  and  buried  itself 
in  the  wall.  I  did  not  look  to  see  where  it  had  gone. 
I  caught  the  poor  boy  in  my  arms  and  made  him 
sit  down  over  there.  ...  I  talked  to  him 
for  a  long  time,  got  him  quieted  down  and  made 
him  listen  to  reason.  I  had  means — I  was  willing 
to  share  with  him — I,  at  last,  induced  him  to  accept 
something — the  check  you  found.  ...  I  made 
him  eat  ...  I  thought  I  had  entirely  suc- 
ceeded in  quieting  him — in  assuring  him  as  to  his 
future,  when  he  left  me.  .  .  .  And  then — 

Hood  dropped  beside  the  table,  and  as  though 
his  emotions  completely  unmanned  him,  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

"Very  affecting — very  affecting,  indeed,"  remarked 
Inspector  Winkle,  coolly,  after  a  short  silence.  "A 
very  complete  explanation,  as  far  as  it  goes,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  true.  No,  no  doubt  whatever." 
He  favoured  Clancy  with  a  knowing  look  as  who 
should  say:  "You  don't  catch  an  old  bird  with 
chaff."  But  he  did  not  catch  Peter's  eye,  for  that 
young  man  was  looking  in  quite  another  direction. 
Slightly  disappointed  in  his  effort  to  take  the  re- 
nowned Clancy  into  his  confidence  and  to  show 
his  non-gullibility,  the  inspector  continued:  "Un- 


"WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET—  '  55 

fortunately  it  still  leaves  a  few  things  to  be  ex- 
plained. Just  a  few.  Here  are  two  men,  alone 
in  a  lonely  house — the  caretakers  gone.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  Mr.  Hood,  do  you  know  just  where 
they  have  gone?"  His  little  gray  eyes  were  like 
gimlets  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"Yes."  Hood  roused  himself  to  reply.  "John 
and  Eliza  have,  I  believe,  a  daughter  playing  at 
some  theatre  in  New  York.  Some  minor  part 
in  the  'Wishing  Stile',  I  understand.  She  sent 
them  tickets  for  to-night  and  they  were  very  anxious 
to  go.  It  was  a  great  treat  for  them,  naturally, 
and  I  was  quite  willing  that  they  should  go." 

"They  were  to  spend  the  night  in  New  York?" 

"Yes,  with  their  daughter,  I  believe." 

"Hm — yes,"  said  the  inspector.  "Now,  had 
these  people  been  in  your  service  long,  Mr.  Hood?" 

"Why,  about  five  or  six  years,"  answered  Hood. 
"Eliza  was  cook  and  John  was  butler  during  the 
last  years  of  my  mother's  life,  and  they  served 
her  so  well  that  I  kept  them  on  to  take  care  of  the 
place." 

"I  see,  yes.  Five  or  six  years — what  you'd  call  old 
faithful  family  servants  as  things  go  in  these  days," 
said  Inspector  Winkle  with  a  slight  grin.  "Too 
bad  they  happened  to  be  away  just  to-night.  Might 
have  made  a  lot  of  difference  if  any  body  'd  been 
here." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Inspector?" 


56  Q.  E.  D. 

Carlisle  asked,  angrily.  He  was  shrewd  enough  to 
view  the  inspector's  questions  and  remarks  with 
considerable  annoyance,  and  an  anxious  regard  for 
his  friend,  Louis  Hood,  made  him  more  than  a  little 
resentful  of  their  tone. 

"Oh,"  said  Winkle,  carelessly,  "I  only  mean 
that  if  the  house  had  been  full  of  people  a  great 
many  things  mightn't  have  happened,  or  if  they 
had  to  happen,  more  than  one  person  would  have 
seen  what  did  happen,"  he  concluded,  a  trifle  lamely. 

"I  would  like  to  call  your  attention  once  more, 
Inspector,"  Peter  Clancy  spoke  with  quiet  in- 
sistence, "to  the  fact  that  it's  difficult  to  imagine 
how  even  one  person  could  have  seen  the  most 
serious  part  of  the  events  of  this  evening.  I  mean 
the  actual  means  by  which  Walter  Brown  met  his 
death.  You  don't  seem  to  attach  as  much  im- 
portance, as  I  must  confess  I  do,  to  the  evidence  of 
the  footprints  on  the  terrace.  You  must  admit 
that  that  line  of  footprints  coming  from  the  east 
and  terminating  at  the  spot  where  he  was  found, 
were  his  own  footprints." 

"Yes,  I  do  admit  that,"  said  the  inspector,  some- 
what grudgingly.  "The  boots  he  wore  exactly 
fitted  them,  and  there  were  hobs  in  the  heels  both 
of  the  tracks  and  of  the  boots.  They  were  his,  all 
right,  I'm  with  you  that  far." 

"Then  how  in  thunder  do  you  explain  there 
being  absolutely  no  other  marks  in  the  snow  unless 


"WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET "  57 

you  also  admit  that  it  was  a  case  of  suicide?"  asked 
Peter,  and  waited  for  the  answer  of  the  slower 
mind  with  obvious  impatience. 

"I  don't  explain  it,"  said  the  inspector  at  last, 
deliberately.  "I  can't  explain  it — yet.  But  I'm 
going  to  find  out.  I'm  going  to  find  out,  gentle- 
men, if  it  takes  a  leg.  If  the  marks  in  the  snow 
were  as  you  say,  Mr.  Clancy,  and  of  course  I  don't 
doubt  they  were — a  man  of  your  trained  observation 
and  all.  But  even  so — just  to  go  back,  to  Brown's 
footprints — he  was  running.  You  called  my  atten- 
tion to  that  yourself,  and  I  had  already  noticed 
it.  Well,  now,  can  you  imagine — can  you  picture 
to  yourself — a  man  suddenly  making  up  his  mind 
to  kill  himself,  and  running,  actually  running  to  a 
certain  spot  to  do  it?  It  don't  seem  natural  to  me." 
He  wagged  his  large  gray  head.  "No,  it  don't 
seem  natural — any  way  you  look  at  it." 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  silent.  Then  he 
roused  himself  from  his  fit  of  abstraction  and  spoke. 

"I  won't  keep  you  gentlemen  any  longer  to-night," 
he  said.  "You'll  all  be  wanted  at  the  coroner's 
inquest  to-morrow.  I'll  let  you  know  the  time  in 
the  morning,  though  I  think  it's  safe  to  say  now 
that  it  won't  be  before  two.  Where  can  I  reach 
you,  by  the  way?" 

"We're  all  going  over  to  my  house  for  the  night," 
said  Carlisle,  relieved  that  the  present  ordeal  was 
over.  "The  telephone  number  is  Fern  Hills  33." 


58  Q.  E.  D. 

"Mr.  Hood  going  over  with  you?"  asked  Winkle; 
and,  upon  receiving  a  reply  in  the  affirmative,  he 
added:  "That's  right.  That's  right.  More  com- 
fortable than  here  in  the  circumstances.  No  doubt. 
No  doubt.  Think  I'll  stay  a  little  longer,  if  you've 
no  objection,  Mr.  Hood.  Just  like  to  have  a  chance 
to  think  things  over  quietly — and  it's  quiet  here. 
Listen.  Not  a  sound.  Not  a  sound,  but  the  wind 
in  the  trees.  Might  seem  mournful  to  a  fanciful 
man.  But  I'm  not  fanciful.  Lord  bless  you.  I 
deal  in  facts — cold,  hard  facts — and  the  colder  and 
harder  the  better,  eh,  Mr.  Clancy?" 

Clancy  nodded  his  red  head  in  complete  and 
hearty  acquiescence.  He  turned  back,  however, 
on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  the  other  men  having 
preceded  him  down  the  short  passage  toward  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  added  for  the  inspector's 
ear  alone:  "But  all  the  facts,  Mr.  Inspector.  Be 
sure  you  take  all  the  facts,  be  they  cold  as  snow 
or  hot  as  hate,  into  account.  There's  more  in  this 
case  than  meets  the  casual  eye — you  can  take  it 
from  me!  I  wish  you  luck,  Mr.  Inspector,  but  it 
may  be  a  long,  long  time  before  any  one  writes, 
'Q.  E.  D.'  at  the  end  of  this  problem." 

"'Q.  E.  D.'?"  queried  the  inspector,  puzzled, 
'"Q.  E.  D.'?  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr. 
Clancy?  I  don't  seem  to  see — 

"Why  don't  you  know  what  we  used  to  write 
at  the  end  of  our  geometry  problems  in  school. 


"WHEN  WE  FIND  THAT  BULLET "  59 

when  we  were  lucky  enough  to  get  'em  right?" 
Clancy  grinned  a  little,  as  a  light  broke  over  the 
inspector's  ruddy  face,  for  he,  too,  had  been  a  high- 
school  boy,  "You  know — 'Q.E.D.'  'Which  was  to 
be  proved.'  When  you've  proved  the  solution  of 
this  problem  and  can  write  that  at  the  end,  I'll 
take  off  my  hat  to  you,  Inspector,  that  I  will.  Good- 
night." And  shaking  the  old  policeman's  hand, 
Peter  Clancy  followed  his  friends  through  the 
shrouded  house  of  mystery. 


CHAPTER  VI 
WHAT  PETER  HEARD 

IT  WAS  after  eleven  o'clock  when  Harrison 
Carlisle's  car  drew  up  before  his  own  house, 
but  old  Mrs.  Carlisle  was  still  up  and  watching 
for  them.  She  had  already  opened  the  front  door 
before  they  had  succeeded  in  disentangling  and 
lifting  out  the  various  bags  and  rods  with  which 
they  had  equipped  themselves  for  the  fishing  ex- 
pedition which  was  now  no  longer  to  be  thought 
of — at  least  for  the  present. 

"Too  bad.  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  the  old  lady, 
feelingly,  as  the  men  came  up  the  steps  and  de- 
posited the  traps  in  the  front  hall.  To  Louis  Hood 
she  gave  her  hand  with  an  effect  of  sincere  and 
quiet  sympathy  which  was  as  quietly  but  most 
gratefully  received.  She  had  been  his  mother's 
friend  for  more  years  than  she  cared  to  count, 
and  the  trouble  which  had  fallen  on  his  house 
affected  her  almost  as  if  it  had  been  her  own. 
She  asked  few  questions,  though  the  information 
which  was  voluntarily  imparted  was  received  by 
her  with  all  the  vital  interest  of  a  young  and 
ardent  spirit.  She  was  a  woman  of  few  words, 

60 


WHAT  PETER  HEARD  61 

but  the  remarks  she  did  make  were  keen  and  to 
the  point. 

"Walter  Brown,  Walter  Brown?"  She  repeated 
the  name  when  it  was  told  her  with  grave  con- 
sideration. "I  never  knew  him,  did  I,  Louis?  I 
don't  seem  to  remember— 

"No,  Mrs.  Carlisle,  you  never  knew  him.  We 
were  friends  long  before  my  family  came  to  Fern  Hills 
to  live  and  he  went  West  many  years  ago.  I  don't 
know  that  you  ever  heard  me  even  speak  of  him." 

Was  there  still  a  note  of  restraint  in  Hood's  voice 
as  he  answered  this  old,  old  friend?  Peter  could 
not  be  sure — and  yet 

"Well,  there's  no  use  going  over  all  this  dreadful 
occurrence  any  more  to-night,  is  there?"  said  Mrs. 
Carlisle,  considerately.  "You  all  must  be  dread- 
fully tired — completely  worn  out,  I  should  say,  and 
ought  to  go  straight  to  bed.  Take  an  old  woman's 
advice,  and  get  some  sleep.  Things  will  be  clearer 
and  better  in  the  morning.  They  always  are. 
I've  had  the  northwest  chamber  made  ready  for 
Louis,  Harry,  and  you'd  better  take  him  up  at 
once.  I  don't  like  to  see  you  looking  so  pale, 
my  dear,"  she  added,  laying  her  kind  old  hand 
affectionately  on  Hood's  shoulder.  "You  go  up 
with  Harry  and  get  to  sleep  as  soon  as  you  can. 
We  can't  afford  to  have  our  future  district  attorney 
upset  and  made  ill,  perhaps.  We  are  all  very  proud 
of  you,  Louis,  you  know." 


62  Q.  E.  D. 

He  smiled  rather  sadly  down  into  her  eyes  and 
put  his  hand  over  hers,  drawing  it  down  and  holding 
it  in  both  of  his  with  great  tenderness. 

"You're  very  good  to  me,  Mrs.  Carlisle,"  he  said, 
gently,  "and  I'm  glad  you're  proud  of  me.  But 
don't  take  that  talk  of  running  me  for  district 
attorney  too  seriously.  It  may  never  come  off, 
you  know.  There  are  better  men  than  I  in  the 
field.  You  mustn't  forget  that."  He  pressed  her 
hand  a  little  and  with  a  slight  motion  of  the  eye- 
brows and  head  indicated  Robert  Kent  who  was 
bending  over  his  bag  and  rods  in  the  corner  of  the 
hall  a  few  paces  away.  "They're  talking  of  him  for 
it,  too,"  he  said  in  a  voice  too  low  to  reach  Kent's 
ears.  "But  it's  early  days  yet  and  no  one  knows 
what  will  happen."  With  a  slight  sigh  he  released 
the  old  lady's  hand  and  turned  to  Harrison.  "I'd 
like  to  telephone  into  town  before  I  go  up,  if  I 
may,"  he  said.  "It's  rather  important,  and  I  didn't 
quite  like  to  do  it  from  my  own  house." 

"Why,  certainly,  old  man,"  said  Harrison,  quickly. 
"You  know  where  the  'phone  is — right  under  the 
stair  landing.  Help  yourself." 

Peter,  Robert  Kent,  Harrison,  and  his  mother 
were  all  standing  beside  the  dying  embers  of  the 
fire  in  the  living  room  saying  "good-night"  while 
Louis  Hood  was  telephoning.  None  of  them  ap- 
peared to  be  listening,  but  from  where  they  stood 
the  one-sided  conversation  was  quite  audible. 


WHAT  PETER  HEARD  63 

"Murray  Hill,  forty  thousand  and  six,"  Hood 
called  and  then  in  a  louder  voice,  as  the  connection 
was  evidently  not  of  the  best,  he  repeated,  "Murray 
Hill,  forty  thousand  and  six,"  and  waited. 
"This  was  a  terrible  thing  to  happen,"  said  Mrs. 
Carlisle,  in  a  low  tone,  warming  her  hands  at  the 
fire.  "I'm  glad  you  were  there,  Mr.  Clancy." 

"Aren't  you  ever  going  to  call  me  Peter,  Mrs. 
Carlisle?"  said  that  young  man  bending  toward 
her.  "I  should  think  Harry  and  I  had  been  friends 
almost  long  enough." 

"Is  this  Murray  Hill  forty  thousand  and  six?" 
asked  the  voice  in  the  hall.  "Is  Miss  Farquhar 
there?  She  is  still  up?  Will  you  tell  her  that 
Mr.  Hood  would  like  to  speak  to  her  for  a  moment  ? 
Yes,  Louis  Hood.  Thank  you." 

Peter  was  still  talking  to  Mrs.  Carlisle,  but  he 
was  not  so  much  engaged  as  to  miss  the  quick 
glance  which  Harrison  threw  in  Kent's  direction 
when  Hood  gave  the  name  of  the  lady  to  whom  he 
wished  to  speak,  nor  to  note  the  slight,  involuntary 
frown  which  drew  Kent's  dark  eyebrows  together, 
though  he  was  apparently  absorbed  in  the  exam- 
ination of  a  small  Chinese  curio  which  stood  on  the 
mantel. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  will  make  any  special 
difference,  my  being  there."  Peter  was  continuing 
his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Carlisle  with  one  eye  on 
the  two  men  in  front  of  him  and  one  ear  trained 


64  Q.  E.  D. 

on  the  voice  in  the  hall.  "I'm  not  going  to  get 
mixed  up  in  the  case,  I  promise  you.  I'm  too 
tired  and  worn  out  altogether."  He  spoke  with 
determination,  and  in  the  meantime  heard  Hood 
speak  in  little  disjointed  sentences,  with  slight 
pauses  for  answers  in  between. 

"Is  that  you,  Sylvia?" 

"Yes.   Why  what  do  you  mean?" 

A  short  silence. 

"No — I  sent  the  tickets  to  you  yesterday.  Didn't 
you  get  them?  For  the  'Wishing  Stile'.  Yes." 

"Well!    That's  queer." 

Another  pause. 

"No,  Sylvia,  really — I  didn't  forget.  I  bought 
them  in  the  morning  and  sent  them  up  by  a  messen- 
ger. I  don't  understand 

"Well,  my  dear  girl,  I  would  apologize,  of  course. 
But  I  did  send  them.  Truly  I  did." 

"That's  lucky.  I'm  glad  you  were  able  to  get 
seats,  after  all.  But,  Sylvia,  that  wasn't  why  I 
called  you  up.  No.  Something  more  important. 
I  was  afraid  you  might  see  it  in  the  morning  papers 
and  be  worried." 

Peter,  watching  by  the  fire,  was  almost  sure  that 
he  saw  Robert  Kent  clench  his  teeth.  Hood  was 
still  speaking. 

"An  accident.  Yes.  At  Mother's — at  my  house 
out  here  in  Fern  Hills.  No,  no,  I'm  quite  all  right. 
Don't  worry  about  me.  But  it  was  rather  terrible. 


WHAT  PETER  HEARD  65 

A  man  found  dead  on  the  steps  of  the  terrace.     . 
A  man  I  used  to  know.     He  had  been  to  see  me, 
and  I  thought  he  had  gone  away.     He  was  found 
by  Harry  Carlisle  and  some  other  men  who  had 
called  to  take  me  on  that  trip  I  told  you  about." 

Mrs.  Carlisle  said  something  just  then  and  Clancy 
lost  the  next  few  words  of  the  conversation  over 
the  telephone,  but  he  thought  he  caught  the  man's 
name,  Walter  Brown,  though  the  sentences  which 
preceded  and  followed  it  were  spoken  in  as  low  a 
voice  as  would  carry  over  the  wire  and  he  could 
make  nothing  of  them. 

With  assurances  on  Hood's  part  that  he  would 
see  her  as  early  as  possible  in  the  morning  and  that 
there  was  not  the  least  thing  to  be  anxious  about, 
the  one-sided  conversation  closed  and  Hood  re- 
turned to  the  living  room. 

Kent  was  still  looking  at  the  little  Chinese  figure 
on  the  mantel-piece  which  had  all  along  engrossed 
his  attention.  It  was  a  quaint,  grotesque  little 
figure  carved  in  ebony,  of  a  man  seated  on  a  box 
of  the  same  dark  wood,  having  in  his  hand  a  tiny 
silver  knife.  On  the  box  in  front  of  his  crossed 
and  folded  knees  was  a  little  lacquered  plate  of 
fish.  By  twisting  a  small  button  at  the  side,  one 
could  make  him  raise  the  knife  with  a  lifelike  motion 
and.  apparently  plunge  it  into  the  fish  and  lift  it 
again  to  meet  the  head  which  bent  forward  by  the 
same  mechanism.  It  was  a  curious  little  toy  and 


66  Q.  E.  D. 

perhaps  deserving  the  close  attention  which  Robert 
Kent  bestowed  upon  it.  At  any  rate,  he  did  not 
turn  his  head  when  Hood  entered  the  room. 

"Well,  Louis,  are  you  ready  for  bed  now?" 
asked  Harrison  in  his  frank,  cordial  voice.  "I'd 
advise  you  to  sleep  late  in  the  morning,  if  you  can. 
There  won't  be  anything  doing  till  the  afternoon, 
anyway,  and " 

"I've  got  to  go  into  town  on  the  early  train, 
Harry,  I'm  sorry  to  say,"  replied  Hood.  "But 
I  won't  disturb  any  one.  I  can  get  my  breakfast 
at  the  station." 

"Indeed  you  can't,  Louis,"  said  Mrs.  Carlisle,  with 
eager  hospitality.  "I'll  have  a  tray  brought  up  to 
your  room  whenever  you  want  it.  I'm  always  up 
early,  myself,  and  it  won't  be  the  least  trouble. 
There's  a  train  at  8:27  that  Harry  usually  takes 
when  he  has  to  go  in — will  that  be  early  enough? 
Very  well,  I'll  send  you  something  at  eight.  That 
will  give  you  plenty  of  time.  And  now,  good-night* 
Louis.  I  hope  you'll  sleep  well.  Good-night,  my 
boy." 

There  was  something  so  sweet  and  motherly  in 
the  old  lady's  voice  as  she  offered  her  hand  that 
for  an  instant  Louis  Hood  almost  lost  his  self-con- 
trol, and  it  was  perhaps  to  hide  something  in  his 
eyes,  something  which  he  could  not  bear  to  have 
any  one  see,  which  made  him  lean  suddenly  forward 
and  with  old-fashioned  courtesy  rarely  seen  in  a 


WHAT  PETER  HEARD  67 

young  man  of  this  day  and  generation,  touch  the 
wrinkled  old  hand  with  his  lips. 

Peter,  with  all  the  self-consciousness  of  modern 
ideas  and  training,  knew  that  he  could  not  have 
imitated  the  gesture — not  if  his  life  had  depended 
on  it,  and  yet,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  he  felt  so  keen 
a  sympathy  with  the  sentiment  that  prompted  it, 
so  keen  a  perception  of  the  dark  cloud  which  was 
even  now  brooding  upon  the  nearing  future,  that 
he  could  not  repress  a  short,  heavy  sigh. 

The  sigh  found  its  echo  a  little  later,  incon- 
gruously, in  the  ordinarily  cheerful  voice  of  Harry 
Carlisle,  who,  having  personally  disposed,  for  the 
night,  of  his  two  other  guests,  returned  to  where 
his  mother  and  Peter  Clancy  still  sat  by  the  fire 
talking  in  low  tones,  discussing  more  in  detail  the 
rapid  and  terrible  events  of  the  evening. 

Peter  was  amazed  at  the  swift  and  keen  deductions 
which  the  old  lady  drew  from  his  statement  of  facts, 
and  it  taxed  his  ingenuity  to  present  them  in  such 
a  way  as  to  leave  her  free  from  anxiety  in  Louis 
Hood's  behalf.  He  was  very  desirous  of  doing  this, 
for  though  he  himself  had  known  Hood  not  at  all 
intimately  and  had  no  special  or  overpowering 
interest  in  this  friend  of  Harrison  Carlisle's,  it 
was  easily  seen  that  he  was  a  great  favourite  with 
Harry's  mother,  and  Peter's  admiration  of,  and 
affection  for  her,  was  such  that  he  wished  to  spare 
her  the  least  pain.  In  the  circumstances,  this  was 


68  Q.  E.  D. 

a  somewhat  perplexing  problem,  and  he  welcomed 
his  friend's  return  with  a  feeling  of  distinct  relief. 

"Well,  Peter,  old  top,"  said  Carlisle,  taking  his 
usual  place  on  the  hearthrug  with  his  back  to  the 
dying  fire,  "this  has  been  a  hard  evening,  I'll  tell 
the  world.  I  can't  help  being  glad  you  were  on 
deck,  but  I  am  as  sorry  as  the  mischief  that  I  got 
you  out  here  under  false  pretenses.  The  trip  up 
to  the  Club  is  off,  of  course,  for  the  present,  but  I 
wish  you'd  stick  around  here  with  Mother  and  me 
to  cheer  us  up.  You'll  have  to  be  here  to-morrow 
anyway,  and  I  think  you'd  better  stay  on  for  a 
few  days.  How  about  it?  Eh?  If  this  queer 
thing  of  Hood's  clears  up  to-morrow  we — at  least 
you  and  I — might  beat  it  up  to  the  Club  even  if 
Louis  doesn't  feel  like  going.  I  dare  say  Kent 
will  come,  too.  There's  no  use  giving  it  up  alto- 
gether. What  think,  old  Red-top?" 

"Why,  I'm  with  you,  Harry,  and  then  some," 
answered  Peter,  heartily.  "I'm  ashamed  to  say  how 
disappointed  I  am.  Seems  sort  of  childish — but 
ever  since  you  taught  me  to  cast  a  fly — Gee,  it  was 
a  long  time  ago,  too.  How  many  years?  I  hate 
to  think!  Anyhow,  it  was  when  we  first  graduated 
from  old  Remington's  and  before  you  went  to 
college.  That  was  a  long  time  ago,  Mrs.  Car- 
lisle." 

"I  suppose  it  does  seem  long  to  you,"  smiled 
the  old  lady,  "but  it  seems  almost  like  yesterday 


WHAT  PETER  HEARD  69 

to  me.  I  can  see  you  and  Harry  now,  going  off 
with  your  rods  like  two  happy  children.  I'm  so 
dreadfully  sorry  to  have  you  miss  your  sport.  I 
wish  there  were  some  way " 

"I  say,  Mother,"  interruped  Harrison,  eagerly, 
"what  would  you  think  of  my  taking  old  Red-top  out 
early  to-morrow  morning  for  a  hack  at  Mayhew's 
brook?  It's  so  near,  and  there  are  some  good 
fish  in  it  at  the  beginning  of  the  season.  It's  well 
protected.  Runs  all  the  way  through  the  Mayhew 
estate  till  it  gets  to  the  road,  and  then  it  goes  through 
a  corner  of  Louis  Hood's  place,  Peter,  so  you  can 
see  it  isn't  far  off.  We  ought  to  get  some  sport  and 
we  could  be  back  long  before  lunch.  It  would  be 
better  than  sticking  around  the  house,  wouldn't  it? 
What  do  you  say,  old  sport?  Are  you  game?" 

Peter  accepted  with  alacrity  and  for  more  than 
one  reason.  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  in  coming 
to  Fern  Hills,  to  get  a  rest.  He  knew  he  needed  it. 
He  had  been  occupied  almost  incessantly  for  the 
last  year  and  was  beginning  to  feel  the  strain.  In 
spite  of  which  fact  the  events  of  the  night  had 
laid  such  hold  on  his  imagination  that  he  was  in 
some  doubt  as  to  his  ability  to  conquer,  tempo- 
rarily, his  ruling  passion  and  leave  the  strange  case 
severely  alone.  Unless  he  was  actively  interested 
in  something  which  would  fill  his  mind,  he  knew 
he  could  not  keep  it  from  dwelling  on  the  subject. 

And  there  was  another  consideration.     If  he  re- 


70  Q.  E.  D. 

frained  from  proceeding  as  if  nothing  of  very  serious 
import  had  happened,  he  would  only  add  to  the  anx- 
iety of  Mrs.  Carlisle  and  her  son.  It  was  best  to 
go  on  as  if  no  danger  threatened  any  friend  of  theirs. 

"No  danger,"  he  repeated  to  himself,  a  little 
later,  as  he  slowly  undressed.  "I  wish  I  were 
sure.'*  He  shook  his  head.  "A  man — a  strange 
man — a  man  armed  with  a  pistol — has  his  throat 
cut  and  his  neck  broken — with  no  one  anywhere 
near  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  Pete,  cut  it  out.  Cut 
it  out!  It's  no  business  of  yours.  You're  going 
fishing  in  the  morning,  early.  Just  remember  that, 
old  top,  and  forget  the  rest.  Come,  now,  forget 
it.  ...  Wonder  what  flies  we  ought  to  use. 
Gray-hackle,  maybe — or  a  Blue  Dun.  Harry's 
sure  to  have  all  of  'em  and  he'll  know  the  most 
likely  kind  to  use  here  at  this  season." 

He  switched  off  the  light  and  opened  the  window 
wide.  A  faint  soft  breeze  stole  in,  stirring  the 
muslin  curtains.  The  moon,  descending  slowly  in 
the  west  still  threw  a  soft  light  over  the  quiet 
landscape,  faintly  defining  the  dark  trees  and  roofs 
of  distant  houses.  The  sky  was  cloudless  now, 
clear  and  darkly  blue,  pricked  through  with  tiny 
stars. 

"It'll  be  a  fine  day  to-morrow,"  Peter  thought. 
"We  ought  to  have  good  sport  if  Mayhew's  brook 
amounts  to  anything.  The  snow  will  be  gone 
almost  as  soon  as  the  sun  gets  up."  Then  with  a 


WHAT  PETER  HEARD  71 

quick  shifting  of  ideas,  "I'm  glad  I  made  that  dia- 
gram and  the  measurements  of  the  footprints  in 
the  snow  so  carefully.  It'll  be  all  gone  before 
noon  to-morrow  and  nothing  on  the  terrace  to  show — 
nothing  to  show.  .  .  ." 

With  a  great   effort   of  his   will,   Peter   put   the 
thought  away  from  him  and  resolutely  tried  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VII 
ENTER — BILL 

/TSHE  day,  when  it  came,  was  all  Peter  had  hoped 
•*•  for  it.     The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  Harry 
Carlisle  knocked  softly  on  his  door,  arousing  him  in- 
stantly from  a  deep  and  troubled  slumber. 

Mrs.  Carlisle  was  already  up  when  they  descended 
the  stairs  and  presided  with  apparently  unforced 
cheerfulness  at  their  early  breakfast.  In  that 
house,  the  usual  routine  was  that  which  was  most 
conducive  to  the  pleasure  of  the  day's  sport  for 
its  young  master,  whatever  that  sport  might  happen  to 
be,  and  Peter  felt  that  he  had  done  wisely  in,  so 
far  as  possible,  making  this  day  like  all  the  rest. 

The  breakfast,  though  hastily  prepared,  was  good 
and  hearty,  and  beautifully  served  by  the  inval- 
uable Hoki.  Peter  was  aware  of  the  charm  of  the 
established,  leisurely,  quiet  household,  even  while 
he  could  not  keep  his  mind  from  wandering  to 
other  matters. 

"Your  clever  young  Jap  doesn't  look  quite  well 
this  morning,"  he  said,  casually,  when  the  butler  had 
taken  away  the  fruit.  "Must  have  had  too  good 
a  time  on  his  day  off,  I  should  think." 

72 


ENTER— BILL  73 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Red-top,"  laughed  Harry,  "don't 
tell  me  that  even  a  detective  could  detect  any 
symptoms  of  illness  or  notice  any  particular  kind 
of  a  change  in  a  face  as  much  like  a  yellow  mask  as 
Hoki's  is,  and  all  other  Japs,  for  that  matter — 
'All  coons  look  alike  to  me,'"  he  hummed,  cheer- 
fully, as  the  butler  returned  bearing  the  coffee  urn. 

Peter  did  not  press  the  point  and  ate  heartily, 
speaking  to  no  particular  purpose  until  the  soft- 
footed  Japanese  had  finished  serving  and  left  the 
room.  Then,  returning  to  his  former  speculation, 
he  said:  "Your  butler  isn't  well,  Mrs.  Carlisle,  you 
can  take  my  word  for  it.  I've  had  quite  a  lot  of 
experience  with  Japs  and  Chinese,  too,  and  I'd  watch 
him  a  bit  if  I  were  you  or  he  may  quit  without 
notice." 

Harry  laughed  again. 

"Why,  Clancy,  old  top,  Hoki's  as  strong  as  an 
ox  and  he's  devoted  to  Mother.  Isn't  he,  dear? 
He  wouldn't  think  of  leaving  her  in  the  lurch,  I'm 
sure." 

"He  does  look  muscular,  all  right,"  said  Peter, 
reflectively,  "but  he  might  be  ill,  just  the  same, 
you  know.  Athletes  often  are  very  subject  to  cer- 
tain diseases — and  other  things." 

"How  did  you  know  he  was  an  athlete?"  asked 
Carlisle,  admiringly.  "You're  a  wiz,  Peter,  you 
really  are." 

"Oh,    I    didn't    know,"  said    Clancy,    modestly, 


74  Q.  E.  D. 

"it  was  only  a  guess — from  the  way  he's  built. 
What  is  he?  A  wrestler?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Harry,  "and  a  peach,  at  that. 
He  knows  more  tricks— 

"Jiu-jitsu?"  asked  Peter,  quietly. 

"Yes.  He's  taught  me  quite  a  lot  of  them. 
I  thought  I  was  pretty  good  to  start  with,  but  little 
as  he  is,  he  could  throw  me  with  one  hand  at  first. 
I  can  do  a  lot  better  now." 

Harry  ran  on  in  a  half-boasting  spirit,  but  Peter 
was  not  listening  for  the  moment.  He  was  think- 
ing, instead,  of  a  well-known  jiu-jitsu  trick — a 
murderous  trick — one  in  which  the  victim's  neck 
was  broken  by  the  horrible,  resistless  pressure  of  a 
forearm  held  edgewise  against  the  throat  just  under 
the  ear.  So  deadly  was  the  trick  that  the  victim  was 
held,  helpless.  .  .  .  There  would  be  no  strug- 
gle. .  .  . 

"I'm  pretty  good  now,  if  I  do  say  it  as  shouldn't, 
but  Louis  Hood's  much  better,  I  must  admit." 

At  these  light  words  of  Harry  Carlisle's  Peter's 
mind  came  back  with  a  jerk. 

"Oh,"  he  remarked  as  casually  as  he  could, 
"you  and  Mr.  Hood  have  both  been  taking  lessons, 
have  you?  That  must  have  been  interesting — and 
your  butler  must  be  the  sort  of  man  you'd  hate 
to  lose.  Does  he  have  a  regular  class?  Maybe 
I'd  like  to  join." 

"No,"  Harry  answered  the  question.     "He  just 


ENTER— BILL  75 

taught  Louis  and  myself  a  little  last  summer.  Louis 
was  out  here  then.  It  was  before  his  mother's  death 
and  Hoki  used  to  go  over  there  once  a  week  in  the 
mornings  when  he  hadn't  much  to  do.  I  never 
saw  them  at  work  together  but  I  tried  to  take  a  fall 
out  of  old  Louis  late  in  the  summer,  and  believe 
me,  he  could  put  it  all  over  me." 

Peter  suddenly  pushed  back  his  plate. 

"Come  on,  let's  get  out,  Harry,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 
with  a  little  forced  laugh.  "Aren't  you  ready 
yet?  He  eats  too  much,  Mrs.  Carlisle,  doesn't 
he?  He's  losing  his  figure  already." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  Harry,  indig- 
nantly. "I'll  bet  I  can  walk  you  off  your  feet, 
skinny  as  you  are.  Come  on,  old  top.  Good- 
bye, Mother.  We'll  be  back  in  time  to  have  the 
trout  for  lunch — if  we  get  any." 

"Remember  what  I  said  last  night,  Peter," 
cautioned  Mrs.  Carlisle  as  Clancy  drew  back  the 
chair  for  her  to  rise.  "Get  on  the  stream  first 
and  keep  ahead.  Don't  forget." 

"Now,  Mother,"  said  Harry,  laughing,  "don't 
you  play  favourites.  I'm  letting  Peter  take  my  best 
rod  and  I'll  give  him  first  chance — but  if  he  doesn't 
get  anything  in  the  first  mile — 

True  to  his  promise,  when,  after  a  half  hour's 
walk  the  two  young  men  reached  the  brook  at  the 
upper  limits  of  the  Mayhew  estate,  Harry  set  up 


76  Q.  E.  D. 

the  rods  and  let  Peter  precede  him  down  the  stream. 

It  was  a  very  engaging,  promising-looking  little 
brook.  Swift  water,  increased  by  the  melting  snow, 
sang  and  bubbled  over  rocks  and  spread  into 
gleaming  pools  where  the  early  slanting  rays  of 
light  struck  through  the  budding  branches  of  tall 
trees  and  gleamed  on  the  brilliant  green  of  moss, 
soft  as  velvet,  carpeting  the  steep  slant  of  the 
little  gorge. 

There  was  something  infinitely  beautiful  in  the 
promise  of  the  tender  fringe  of  green  along  the 
banks,  seen  against  the  whiteness  of  the  snow  which 
still  lay  in  the  shadowed  portions  of  the  wood, 
winter's  last  challenge  flung  into  the  lap  of  the 
waiting  spring. 

The  upper  reaches  of  the  stream  were  rather 
heavily  overgrown,  and  Peter  lost  all  sense  of  other 
cares  in  the  absorbing  one  of  watching  his  flies 
as  they  slid  lightly  through  from  riffle  to  riffle  and 
into  the  pools  beyond.  What  thrill  in  the  world 
could  equal  that  with  which  he  saw  the  first  trout 
of  the  season  flash  upward  with  a  gleam  of  silver 
and  take  the  fly,  felt  the  quick  tug  at  the  line, 
heard  the  sharp  buzz  of  the  reel  as  the  fish,  a  good 
one,  judged  by  its  spirit  and  speed,  made  swiftly 
down  the  stream. 

"Fve  got  one  on,"  whispered  Peter,  excitedly, 
playing  from  the  reel  with  wily  caution.  "Feels 
like  a  pippin,  too.  See  there!" 


ENTER— BILL  77 

The  fish  broke,  flinging  a  spray  of  diamond  drops 
into  the  clear,  mild  air,  his  rainbow  sides  flashing 
like  jewels. 

"Drop  your  tip,"  called  Harry,  who  had  come 
quite  cfose.  "Don't  let  him  break  again,  its  too 
dangerous  in  such  a  stream  as — 

The  line  fell  slack. 

"Oh,  Lord,  Red-top,  he's  off.  Too  bad!  He 
was  a  beauty.  If  you'd  only " 

"Can  the  post-mortems,  Harry,  please,"  laughed 
Peter,  ruefully,  reeling  in  his  line.  "I  know  I'm 

not  such  an  old  Izaak  Walton  as  you  are,  but 

Oh,  hang  it  all!  I've  lost  the  cast!  Now  isn't 
that  a  darn  shame?"  He  spoke  with  sincere  regret, 
for  the  tackle  belonged  to  Harry  and  a  friend's 
tackle  is  always  sacred. 

"Never  mind,  old  man.  Got  plenty  more,"  said 
Carlisle,  cheerfully.  "Just  let  me  have  your  line. 
Humph!  Leader's  busted.  Let's  try  another." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  circular  metal  box 
in  which  a  number  of  leaders  were  smoothly  coiled 
upon  a  damp  piece  of  felt,  and  selecting  one,  bent 
it  to  the  end  of  Peter's  line.  He  attached  two  more 
flies  to  this  and  they  proceeded  down  the  stream. 

But  luck  was  against  Peter.  Again  a  fish  took 
his  fly  and  again,  with  the  perversity  of  unpro- 
.pitious  fate,  the  leader  broke. 

"Go  ahead,  Harry,"  said  Peter,  disgustedly,  "I'm 
a  dub.  No  use  wasting  time  on  me.  Leave  me 


78  Q.  E.  D. 

another  leader  and  a  couple  of  flies  and  beat  it. 
I'll  follow  you  as  soon  as  I  can  get  rigged  up  again." 

"All  right,  old  top,"  said  Carlisle  with  unabated 
cheeriness,  flinging  the  leader  box  and  fly  book  at 
Peter's  feet.  "I'll  go  on  slowly,  and  if  you  don't 
catch  up  with  me,  I'll  wait  for  you  down  at  the  road. 
Not  at  the  first  road,  you  understand.  The  brook 
runs  under  a  bridge  there  and  into  the  back  edge 
of  Louis's  grounds.  He  and  Mayhew  have  both 
given  me  permission  to  fish,  and  everybody  around 
here  knows  me,  so  if  you  meet  anybody,  just  tell 
'em  that  you  are  a  friend  of  mine,  that  I'm  on 
ahead,  and  they  won't  make  you  any  trouble. 
You'll  find  a  lot  of  likely  pools  on  Louis's  place  and 
there  are  a  good  number  of  fish,  too,  though  of 
course  they're  mostly  small.  However,  we'll  prob- 
ably be  able  to  pick  up  quite  a  bunch,  over-size. 
I'll  fish  along  through  there  and  wait  for  you  at  the 
second  bridge.  Stream  runs  back  into  the  Mayhew 
place  again,  but  it  isn't  worth  trying  it  any  farther. 
It  spreads  out  there  and  is  pretty  shallow,  and  thick 
with  alders.  Second  bridge,  you  understand.  All 
right.  So  long,  old  chap.  Good  luck." 

And  Harrison  went  on  down  stream,  working 
his  flies  through  narrow  channels  between  rocks, 
around  partially  submerged,  many-clawed  branches, 
over  shallows  and  into  pools  with  an  expert's  con- 
summate skill. 

Peter    watched    him    with    almost    envious    ad- 


ENTER— BILL  79 

miration  until  he  was  lost  to  sight  around  a  turn 
of  the  winding  brook. 

"Small  chance  for  me,"  he  thought  as  he  se- 
lected a  new  leader  and  another  cast,  "Harry  goes 
over  a  stream  with  a  fine-tooth  comb.  But,  thank 
heaven,  most  of  the  joy  of  fishing  is  fishing — mess- 
ing around  in  the  water — hearing  the  birds  and 
the  quietness — and  watching  the  scenery  go  by." 

He  followed  along  down,  happily,  through  the 
gorge,  not  getting  many  rises  but  having,  as  he 
would  have  expressed  it,  a  bully  time.  When  he 
reached  the  more  open  wood  at  the  foot  of  the 
gorge,  he  caught  the  flash  of  Harrison's  rod  now 
and  then,  and  knowing  that  his  more  expert  friend 
considered  it  open  enough  for  casting,  he  was  be- 
trayed into  following  his  example,  with  the  result 
that  he  was  soon  hung  up  in  the  branch  of  a  tree. 
It  took  him  so  long  to  disentangle  his  flies  that 
Carlisle  had  passed  completely  out  of  sight  before 
his  tackle  was  free  again. 

Undisturbed  by  the  absolute  silence  and  soli- 
tude of  the  place,  warmed  to  the  heart  by  the 
spring  sunshine  which  shone  brightly  now  through 
the  silver  trunks  of  graceful  beeches,  reducing 
the  snow  to  little  patches  in  the  shadows  of  their 
boles,  and  flickering  on  the  glittering  leaves  of 
evergreen,  laurel,  and  rhododendron  which  sturdily 
climbed  the  side  of  the  hill,  Peter  absorbed  in  the 
one  sport  for  which  he  really  cared,  his  mind  for 


8o  Q.  E.  D. 

the  moment  unfettered  from  the  chains  of  the 
outside  world,  in  a  glow  with  the  healthful  ex- 
ercise, reached  the  first  bridge  without  having  seen 
any  further  signs  of  his  friend. 

He  paused  here  for  a  moment,  gazing  into  the 
smooth  water  where  the  shadow  of  the  bridge  fell 
upon  it,  descrying  after  a  time  a  number  of  darting, 
slightly  darker  shadows,  a  small  school  of  fish, 
feeding  with  heads  up  stream.  He  tried  a  number 
of  casts,  but,  getting  no  rises,  he  concluded,  for 
his  own  credit,  that  they  must  be  suckers,  and 
plunging  through  a  thicket  of  young  trees  and  under- 
growth, got  on  the  stream  again. 

He  resolutely  put  out  of  his  mind  the  fact  that 
he  was  now  on  Louis  Hood's  place.  He  determined 
not  to  spoil  the  brief  respite  from  his  ordinary  habit 
of  thought  by  harking  back  to  the  events  of  the 
preceding  night.  The  pools  were  many  and  deep, 
as  Carlisle  had  described  them,  and  looked  most 
promising,  but  try  as  he  would  to  concentrate  on 
the  pleasure  of  the  moment,  he  found  that  the  tall, 
dark,  weeping  hemlocks  which  abounded  in  this 
part  of  the  wood  cast  a  disproportionate  amount 
of  shadowy  gloom  upon  his  mind;  he  felt  a  chill 
which  was  hardly  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  thin 
carpet  of  snow  which  in  this  sheltered  spot,  dim 
with  the  ancient  trees,  was  as  smooth  and  untouched 
by  the  ardent  spring  sun  as  if  it  had  but  now  fallen 
from  the  lowering  sky  of  yesterday. 


ENTER— BILL  81 

In  an  effort  to  dispel  the  vague  feeling  of  trouble 
and   oppression  which  was   gradually  falling  upon 
him,  he  began  to  whistle  softly  under  his  breath- 
Eve  cost  Adam  just  one  bone. 

He  got  no  further — the  whistle  died  upon  his 
lips.  Close  in  front  of  him,  as  he  turned  a  bend  of 
the  stream  where  a  small,  steep  shoulder  of  hill 
slanted  upward  on  his  right,  he  was  aware  of  a 
crouching  figure  stealing  stealthily  down  through 
the  thick  undergrowth  from  the  direction  of  the 
narrow  road  he  had  crossed  a  little  while  before. 

With  a  caution  which  was  an  integral  part  of 
his  nature  he  stepped  behind  the  close,  drooping 
branches  of  a  hemlock,  and  waited. 

The  figure,  noiseless  as  a  shadow,  came  on  down 
the  slope.  When  it  reached  the  level  of  the  stream, 
it  stood  erect  at  last  and  discovered  itself  to  be 
that  of  a  huge  old  man.  He  was  roughly  dressed 
in  old,  faded  trousers  and  a  gray  woollen  shirt 
open  at  the  neck.  He  wore  no  hat,  and  the  breeze, 
which  sighed  through  the  evergreen  copse,  stirred 
the  thick,  coarse  gray  hair  upon  his  head  and  the 
wild,  heavy  gray  beard  which  fell  on  his  broad, 
brown  breast.  Peter  noted  the  tremendous  height 
and  breadth  and  the  rugged  carriage  of  the  man 
with  a  grudging  admiration,  and  then  suddenly 
smiled  to  himself.  The  man's  object  in  coming 
there  so  stealthily  had  unexpectedly  revealed  it- 


82  Q.  E.  D. 

self,  for  he  carried  in  his  hand  an  old  bamboo 
pole. 

"I  sure  am  obsessed  with  one  idea,"  thought 
Peter  with  a  sharp  sense  of  relief.  "He's  only 
just  an  ordinary  poacher  taking  advantage  of  the 
family  not  being  here  and  the  ,place  practically 
closed  up.  Wonder  what  he'd  say  if  I  jumped  him." 

The  man,  after  a  cautious  glance  all  about,  seated 
himself  on  a  fallen  log  and  drawing  a  tobacco  tin 
from  his  pocket,  took  from  it  a  wriggling  angle- 
worm and  proceeded  to  affix  it  to  his  hook. 

"Barnyard  hackle,"  said  Peter  to  himself,  still 
watching  from  his  post  of  vantage.  "He's  no 
sportsman,  that's  plain,  but  I'll  bet — 

The  man  had  thrown  in  his  line  with  a  careless 
sweep  of  his  hand.  The  unpleasant,  succulent 
bait  had  scarcely  danced  down  into  the  pool  below 
when  there  was  a  flash  of  silver,  a  quick  twitch  of 
the  bamboo  pole,  and  a  fine  rainbow  trout  lay  flop- 
ping on  the  bank. 

"Good  work!"  cried  Peter,  forgetting  everything 
else  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment.  "He's 
a  beauty.  I'd  no  idea  they'd  run  that  large  in 
this  little  stream." 

He  had  left  the  hemlock  covert  and  unmindful 
of  the  possible  effect  of  his  sudden  appearance 
had  advanced  into  the  open. 

With  a  rough  oath  the  old  man  sprang  to  his  feet 
and,  huge  hands  clenched,  stood  at  bay. 


ENTER— BILL  83 

"Who  are  you? "he  cried,  angrily,  his  eyes  swiftly 
travelling  over  Clancy  from  head  to  foot,  "I  don't 
know  you,"  he  added  with  a  look  of  contempt  for 
Peter's  slender  proportions. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  Peter,  cheerfully,  "but  I 
know  a  good  fish  when  I  see  one.  My,  but  he's  a 
peach,  all  right.  Are  there  many  more  at  home 
like  him?" 

The  man's  hands  slowly  unclenched.  This  was 
no  new  keeper,  no  game  warden,  no  narrow-minded 
stickler  for  the  rights  of  the  fish  to  no  other  diet 
than  fuzzy,  indigestible  flies,  that  was  plain.  His 
heavy  bronzed  features  relaxed  and  he  favoured 
Peter  with  a  slow  grin. 

"Plenty  of  good  fish  in  all  the  brooks  around 
here,"  he  asserted,  gruffly,  "but  you  can't  expect 
to  get  'em  with  that  nonsense."  He  pointed  to 
Harrison's  favourite  rod  and  the  flies  which  dangled 
from  it  and  which  were  caught  in  by  Peter's  hand. 
"How  many  you  got?"  asked  the  old  man,  pointedly. 

Peter  had  to  admit  that  his  creel  was  empty. 

"You  see,"  said  the  old  man,  picking  up  the  gasping 
trout  and  exhibiting  it  before  he  stuffed  it  simply  and 
briefly  into  his  enormous  pocket.  "Let  every  man 
fish  his  own  way,  I  say.  If  you  want  to  look  nice 
and  fish  for  exercise,  all  right,  but  if  you  fish  for 

fish "  He  left  the  rest  of  the  sentence  to  be  taken 

for  granted. 

Peter  laughed  aloud,  and  almost  instantly  a  voice 


84  Q.  E.  D. 

hailed  from  behind  a  close  group  of  evergreens  a  little 
farther  down  the  brook. 

"Hey!  Red-top,"  it  called,  "come  along  with 
those  leaders.  I've  lost  another  cast  and  a  corker 
of  a  fish  to  boot,  dammit!"  and  Harry  Carlisle 
followed  his  voice  around  the  bend  in  the  stream. 

"Why,  hello,"  he  exclaimed  when  he  saw  that 
Peter  was  not  alone.  "Hello!  Up  to  your  old 
tricks  again,  Bill?  Now  you'd  better  look  out." 

He  shook  his  head  laughingly  at  the  old  man, 
but  there  was  an  under-current  of  gravity  in  his 
voice  when  he  went  on.  "Don't  let  Mr.  Hood 
catch  you  on  his  place.  He  isn't  as  open-minded 
toward  local  talent  as  I  am,  you  know." 

"I  know,"  said  the  old  fellow,  darkly,  "but  he 
won't  catch  me,  so  don't  you  worry." 

"He  did  once,"  hinted  Carlisle,  warningly. 

"He  did  once,"  admitted  old  Bill,  frowning 
heavily,  "but  he  won't  again.  And  I'm  going  to 
fish  here  when  I  like.  I  fished  this  crick  before  he 
was  born  or  thought  of — and  I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
if  I  was  fishin'  it  a  long  time  after  he  was  dead." 

His  voice  was  so  bitter  that  the  tolerant  smile 
left  Carlisle's  face. 

"Now,  look  here,  Bill,"  he  said,  "you  and  I 
fished  together  when  I  was  a  kid  and  all  the  streams 
about  here  were  free.  But  times  have  changed. 
All  this  property  is  posted  now  and  it's  no  use  your 
getting  into  trouble,  and  you  will  if  you  keep  this 


ENTER— BILL  85 

up.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Hood  lives  in  town 
now,  and  I  don't  believe  he'll  mind  so  much.  I'll 
see  if  I  can't  get  you  a  permit  from  him  as  a  favour 
to  me  and  don't  you  fish  here  any  more  till  I  see  what 
I  can  do." 

"I  don't  want  no  favours  from  newcomers," 
growled  the  old  man. 

"But  you'd  take  a  little  thing  like  that  from  me, 
wouldn't  you,  Bill?  And  it's  ridiculous  calling 
Hood  a  newcomer.  Why,  they've  had  this  place 
almost  ten  years." 

"Ten  years?  Humph!"  grunted  Bill.  "What's 
ten  years,  unless  you  have  to  spend  it  in  jail,  mebbe." 
But  he  seemed  a  trifle  mollified,  and  evidently  felt 
very  friendly  toward  Carlisle,  for  the  heavy  frown 
left  his  face  after  a  moment  and  he  listened  with  a 
dawning  smile  to  Harry's  angry  remarks  about 
the  leaders  he  had  brought  out  with  him  that  morn- 
ing. 

"A  rotten  bunch,  the  whole  lot  of  'em,"  he  ex- 
claimed, after  testing  several  which  he  took  from 
the  box.  "I  have  to  apologize,  Peter.  I  thought 
yours  broke  because  you  hadn't  got  your  hand  in 
yet." 

"But  when  you  found  yours  went  bad,  too,  you 
knew  it  was  the  fault  of  the  leaders,"  laughed  Peter. 

"Well,  anyway,"  Carlisle  grinned,  "this  whole 
lot's  N.G.  and  we  might  as  well  give  up  for  the 
morning."  He  turned  to  the  old  man  with  a  per- 


86  Q.  E.  D. 

suaslve  smile.  "You  don't  want  to  fish  any  more 
just  now,  and  you  might  as  well  come  along  with 
us,  Bill." 

He  only  wanted  to  extend  his  protection  to  the 
old  fellow.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  was  doing 
something  which  would  have  a  far-reaching  effect 
on  the  lives  of  many  people,  on  some  he  counted  as 
his  friends,  on  some  whose  faces  he  had  never  seen. 
He  waited  for  the  old  man's  answer. 

"All  right,  I'll  come  with  ye,"  said  old  Bill. 

And  what  was  written  was  written. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME" 

A  FEW  moments  later  the  strangely  assorted 
•*•  ^-  trio  reached  the  narrow  road  which  they  had 
crossed  before  higher  up  and  which  formed  the 
western  boundary  of  the  Hood  estate.  As  they 
walked  along  the  rough,  uneven  way,  Clancy  caught 
glimpses  on  his  left  between  the  trees  of  the  long 
gray  fa9ade  of  the  house.  Only  small  portions  of 
it  were  visible,  some  of  the  dormers  in  the  high, 
hipped  roof  and  the  thick,  squat  chimneys  from 
which,  as  yet,  no  smoke  was  rising.  He  only 
glanced  at  it  in  passing,  realized  it  was  quite  near 
this  rough  untravelled  road,  and  hurried  on  after 
•his  companions. 

In  a  minute  or  two  he  caught  up  with  them  as 
they  reached  another  road,  slightly  wider,  but 
scarcely  better  paved  than  the  one  they  had  just 
left  and  running  east  and  west  at  right  angles  to  it. 

"Listen  to  this,  Red-top,"  said  Harry,  stopping 
short  and  turning  toward  Peter.  Obviously,  to  that 
young  man's  keen  eye,  Carlisle  was  with  difficulty 
keeping  down  a  rising  excitement.  "Hear  what  a 
funny  thing  happened  to  Bill  when  he  was  coming 

87 


88  Q.  E.  D. 

up  from  the  village  about  seven  o'clock  last  night. 
Tell  him  about  it,  Bill." 

"Why,  I  was  just  tellin'  Mr.  Carlisle,"  said  the 
old  man,  with  an  embarrassment  which  was,  per- 
haps, accounted  for  by  the  necessity  of  making  a 
long  speech  to  a  stranger.  "It  was  a  kinda  queer 
thing  happened  right  along  here  last  night."  He 
coughed  a  little  and  spat  into  the  bushes.  "I 
was  comin'  up  from  the  village  over  there,"  he 
pointed  toward  the  east  along  the  road  they  had 
just  entered,  "an*  was  a  little  below  the  brow  o' 
the  hill,  ye  see,  when  I  heard  a  woman  screechin'  to 
beat  the  cars.  I  stopped  dead  at  the  first  yell  an* 
listened.  Then  she  screeched  again,  an'  I  hustled 
up  the  hill's  fast  as  I  could  go.  'Twan't  no  common 
screech.  Sounded  like  she  was  in  trouble,  all  right, 
an'  I  made  the  best  time  I  could,  but  mebbe  I  ain't's 
good  at  runnin'  as  I  am  at  fishin',  fer  when  I 
got  to  the  top  of  the  hill  I  couldn't  see  nuthin' 
movin'  on  the  road.  It  got  dark  right  after  sunset 
last  night,  you  remember,  and  I  couldn't  see  s'  very 
fur,  so  I  pasted  along  towards  this  way  down  the 
level  road,  hard's  I  could  pelt,  and  I  didn't  see  nuthin' 
at  all  till  I  got  almost  here.  Then  I  seen  a  man  come 
out  o'  the  road  back  of  us,  goin'  fer  all  he  was  worth." 

"The  road  we've  just  come  down?"  asked  Clancy. 

"Yes,  sir.  He  come  out  o'  that  there  road  an' 
shot  around  the  corner  of  this  one,  away  from  me, 
y'understand,  like  a  rabbit.  An'  I'd  no  sooner 


"CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME"  89 

lost  sight  of  him  than  I  heard  an  auto  start  up. 
An'  that's  all  there  was  to  it.  Sounds  like  a  likely 
story,  don't  it?"  he  concluded,  the  uncertainty 
deepening  in  his  strongly  marked  face. 

"You're  sure  it  was  a  woman  you  heard?"  asked 
Clancy  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

"Sure  ez  shootin'.  She  had  a  strong  voice  but 
'twas  high  pitched  an'  I  think  it  would  'a'  been — 
oh,  you  know,  kinda  pretty — if  she  hadn't  been  so 
skeered." 

"Cherchez  la  femme"  said  Carlisle  in  a  low 
voice  to  Peter.  Clancy  nodded  and  spoke  again 
to  the  old  man. 

"You  heard  a  woman,  but  saw  a  man,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "How  do  you  account  for  that?" 

"I  don't  account  fer  it,"  answered  Bill,  diffidently. 
"I'm  just  tellin'  you  the  facts." 

"It  was  pretty  dark  last  night  at  seven  o'clock," 
persisted  Peter,  "how  can  you  be  sure  it  was  a  man 
you  saw?  Were  you  very  close  to  him?" 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  as  if  the  idea  struck  him  for 
the  first  time,  "I  dunno  exactly  how  I  know.  It 
was  dark,  as  you  say,  and  I  wasn't  s'  very  clost. 
He  had  on  some  kind  of  a  long  coat  that  might  'a* 
been  a  skirt,  mebbe,  but  he  run  like  a  man  an'  he 
looked  like  a  man  an'  dogged  if  I  don't  think  he 
was  a  man." 

"Sounds  like  good  reasoning  to  me,"  said  Carlisle, 
smiling,  "only  you  say  he  didn't  scream  like  a  man." 


90  Q.  E.  D. 

"No,  he  couldn't  'a'  done  the  screamin'.  I  figgered 
there  was  a  woman  summers  about  that  I  didn't 
see."  Bill,  though  somewhat  abashed,  could  scarcely 
fail  to  feel  flattered  by  the  interest  exhibited  both 
by  Mr.  Carlisle  and  his  friend  in  the  tale  of  his 
adventure. 

"Was  the  person  you  did  see  too  tall  to  be  a  wo- 
man?" Clancy  still  persisted. 

"N-no.  S'fur's  I  could  tell  he  wasn't  very  tall," 
answered  the  old  man,  scratching  his  head,  "an' 
anyhow,  there  must  have  been  two  of  'em,  fer  the 
screechin'  was  much  nearer  to  me  than  the  man 
could  have  been." 

"Well,  what  did  you  do,  Bill?"  asked  Harry  with 
lively  curiosity.  "When  you  saw  the  man  and 
heard  the  car  go  off,  did  you  lose  all  interest  in 
the  damsel  in  distress?" 

"No,  I  didn't,  Mr.  Carlisle.  Them  screams 
sounded  too — too — awful  scared,  y'know.  I  went 
back  there  a  piece,"  Bill  pointed  toward  the  east, 
"an'  listened.  I  didn't  hear  nuthin'  but  I  kinda 
scratched  'round  in  the  bushes  a  little,  about  where 
I  thought  the  noise  came  from." 

"Did  you  find  anything?"  asked  Carlisle,  eagerly. 

"Not  a  durned  thing.  Wasn't  no  woman  there, 
I  was  sure.  I  searched  all  through  the  bushes, 
right  up  to  the  fence,  but  there  wasn't  nobody 
there  so  I  kinda  figgered  that  whatever  the  trouble 
was,  it  went  off  in  the  automobile  an'  I  give  the 


"CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME"  91 

thing  up  an'  went  on  home.  But  it  was  a  funny 
thing  to  happen  in  a  place  like  this,  now  wasn't 
it?  I  been  thinkin'  about  it  a  lot.  What  d'ye 
suppose  'twas  all  about  now?"  If  the  old  man 
was  as  ingenuous  as  he  appeared,  the  incident, 
for  some  reason,  had  obviously  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  his  mind. 

"What  do  you  think,  old  top?"  asked  Harry, 
looking  sidewise  at  Peter. 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  Sounds  awfully  queer  to 
Aie,"  answered  Peter,  readily.  "Suppose  you  show 
us  where  you  think  the  woman  was,"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,  do,  Bill.  The  whole  thing's  as  thrilling 
.as  a  dime  novel,"  said  Carlisle,  quick  to  catch  the 
under-current  of  seriousness  in  Peter's  tone. 

The  old  man  needed  no  persuasion,  apparently. 
He  led  the  way  at  once  along  the  road  which  formed 
the  southern  boundary  of  the  Hood  place. 

Clancy  touched  Harrison's  arm,  holding  him  back 
a  pace  or  two. 

"Does  he  know  about  what  happened  in  there 
last  night?"  he  asked  below  his  breath,  nodding  in 
the  direction  of  the  house. 

Carlisle  shook  his  head.  "Not  that  I  know  of," 
he  answered  in  the  same  guarded  tone. 

Peter  again  nodded  his  head  and  caught  up  with 
the  old  man. 

"Was  it  as  far  along  as  this?"  he  said. 

"Just   a   bit    futher.     About    here,   fer's   I   could 


92  Q.  E.  D. 

judge."  Bill  stopped  when  they  had  advanced  a 
few  hundred  feet  and  pointed  to  the  shrubs  which 
grew  along  a  brick  wall  on  the  left  side  of  the  road. 

Peter  looked  on  beyond  the  wall  and  could  see, 
through  a  plantation  of  young  firs  inside  it,  the 
upper  stories  of  the  Hood  house  some  little  distance 
away.  Glancing  up  at  the  sun,  he  realized  that  it 
was  the  south  end  of  the  house  at  which  he  looked, 
the  end  where  was  the  main  entrance  and  the  terrace 
on  which  .  .  . 

"The  screams  come  from  along  in  here  summers," 
Bill  was  saying.  "Course  I  can't  be  sure,  to  a 

few  dozen  yards  or  so "  He  stepped  in  among 

the  bushes  as  he  spoke. 

"Talk  to  him,"  whispered  Peter,  hurriedly,  to 
Carlisle.  "Keep  him  from  walking  around  as 
much  as  you  can.  I  want  to  have  a  look — 

Peter  went  on  a  few  paces  more  along  the  road 
and  then  plunged  into  the  bushes.  They  were  not 
so  tall  as  to  hide  him  completely  from  observation, 
but  many  of  them  were  young  evergreens  and  they 
formed  a  fairly  effective  screen  for  his  movements. 
He  worked  his  way  through  between  the  shrubs, 
scanning  eagerly  the  surface  of  the  ground. 

The  snow,  wherever  it  was  sheltered  from  the  sun, 
still  lay  in  moist,  white  patches  upon  the  greening 
grass,  and  everywhere  he  found  huge  footprints 
breaking  into  it,  mute  evidence  of  the  thorough- 
ness of  old  Bill's  search.  The  cries  must  have 


"CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME"  93 

made  a  deep  impression  on  the  old  man's  mind 
unless  he  had  some  other  reason  for  being  there. 
This  thought  did  not  cross  Peter's  mind  at  the 
time.  It  was  only  afterward  that  it  occurred  to 
him  to  wonder.  .  .  . 

Searching  every  tell-tale  spot  of  snow,  he  made 
his  way  along  the  wall  farther  and  farther  from 
his  companions,  and  still  he  found  Bill's  heavy  foot- 
prints. He  judged  that  he  had  arrived  nearly  op- 
posite the  main  entrance  of  the  house  when  suddenly 
he  came  upon  something  which,  in  spite  of  the  old 
man's  story,  perhaps  because  of  its  incongruity 
in  that  place,  filled  him  with  a  feeling  of  surprise. 

There,  quite  clear  upon  the  snow,  was  the  print 
of  a  woman's  shoe.  It  was  small  and  delicately 
pointed,  with  a  tiny,  almost  semi-circular  heel  mark 
driven  deep  into  the  yielding  surface  of  evanescent 
white  carpet,  which  had  preserved  it  until  now. 
In  a  few  hours  at  the  most  it  would  be  gone  for  ever. 

Almost  instinctively,  Peter  drew  a  notebook  from 
his  pocket  and  made  a  careful  diagram  of  the  print, 
supplementing  it  with  a  series  of  measurements, 
minute  in  their  accuracy.  Then,  since  the  toe  was 
pointed  toward  the  wall,  he  searched  again  in  that 
direction. 

Immediately  before  him  was  a  young  fir,  taller 
and  broader  than  any  of  its  fellows,  with  thick- 
growing  branches  sweeping  the  ground.  It  threw 
so  strong  a  shade  that  the  patch  of  snow  beyond 


94  Q.  E.  D.. 

it  was  of  considerable  area.     Peter  noticed  this  at 
once.     Here,  if  anywhere — 

Ah,  there  they  were.  Not  one  but  several, 
lapping  and  overlapping  and  pointing  several  ways. 
They  were  not  scraped  and  broken  as  if  there  had 
been  a  struggle.  Rather,  it  looked  as  if  the  woman 
had  hidden  herself  from  the  road  behind  this  lusty 
young  fir,  had  stood  there  some  moments  and  then 
gone  back  the  way  she  came. 

Was  she  fleeing,  hiding  from  someone?  And 
why  had  she  screamed?  Was  there  any  connection 
between  the  alarming  circumstance  which  had  so 
intrigued  the  huge,  rough  old  man,  and  the  tragedy 
which  had  occurred  nearly  at  the  same  hour,  per- 
haps, at  the  great  house  over  there  behind  the 
trees?  Or  was  it  only  a  coincidence?  Two  un- 
related events  which  bewildered  and  puzzled. 

Mechanically,  Peter  went  on  with  his  search. 
He  was  close  to  the  wall  now,  an  old  wall  of  warm 
red  brick,  not  more  than  breast  high  and  built  more 
for  ornament  than  for  protection,  Peter  thought,  for 
he  had  noted  that  it  ended  at  the  southwest  corner 
of  the  estate.  From  there,  along  the  western  edge, 
there  had  been  nothing  except  a  heavy  planting 
of  shrubs  and  trees. 

Peter  leaned  upon  the  wall  and  looked  over,  con- 
sidering deeply  within  himself.  In  the  shadow  of 
the  wall  was  a  long,  unbroken  line  of  white,  but 
beyond  it  the  ground  slanted  upward  and  for  a 


"CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME"  95 

space  was  free  of  bushes  and,  lying  as  it  did  in  the 
full  face  of  the  southern  sun,  the  snow  had  melted 
completely  away  and  the  thick  turf  showed  green 
with  spring.  From  this  point  the  house  could  be 
seen  more  clearly  across  the  wide,  slanting  lawn. 
The  entrance  was  easily  discernible  between  the 
trees  though  the  bottom  part  of  the  door  and  the 
terrace  were  still  hidden  by  the  lower  shrubs. 

"Well,"  said  Peter  to  himself  after  scanning  the 
prospect  for  a  long  moment,  "if  the  woman  had 
any  connection  with  that  job  (and  for  the  life  of 
me  I  can't  see  how  she  had),  one  thing  is  plain: 
She  didn't  get  over  the  wall.  It's  pretty  high  for 
a  woman  to  climb  and  if  she  did,  she  must  have 
landed  where  the  snow  would  show  her  up.  It  would 
take  a  pretty  tall  man  to  jump  from  the  top  of  the 
wall  and  land  clear  over  where  his  footprints  wouldn't 
show.  And  there  isn't  a  mark  in  sight  anywhere 
inside  the  wall.  This  seems  to  be  the  end  of  this 
trail — no  use  spending  any  more  time — 

Peter's  investigation  had  been  conducted  so 
swiftly  that  only  a  few  moments  had  elapsed  before 
he  again  joined  Harrison  Carlisle  and  the  old  man. 
He  had  found  no  other  traces  of  the  woman  any- 
where. There  was  a  good  deal  of  open  space  and 
the  turf  was  far  too  thick  to  retain  impressions. 
Whatever  other  record  of  the  story  there  had  been 
had  vanished  with  the  morning's  sun. 

As  soon  as  Carlisle  caught  sight  of  Peter,  he  raised 


96  Q.  E.  D. 

his  eyebrows,  questioning.  Peter  nodded  slightly 
with  a  gesture  of  caution  and  the  two  understood 
each  other. 

"We  haven't  found  a  single  trace  of  any  femi- 
nine thing,"  said  Carlisle  at  once,  "and  I  think 
Bill's  been  dreaming.  Get  any  home-brew  down 
in  Fern  Hills  last  night,  Bill?"  he  added,  laughing. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"You  can  laugh  all  you  like,  Mr.  Carlisle,"  he 
said.  "I  was  cold  sober.  I  callate  to  get  drunk 
at  home  these  days  on  my  own  private  stock.  I 
don't  take  no  chance  of  gettin*  poisoned  with  wood 
alcohol  like  y'  read  about  in  the  papers.  Well, 
gentlemen,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"I  guess  I'll  be  gettin'  along  home." 

"All  right,  Bill,"  said  Carlisle,  "we  go  the  other 
way.  Now  remember  what  I  say,  wait  till  I  get 
you  a  permit  before  you  go  on  Mr.  Hood's  land 
again." 

"I'll  do  it  for  you,  Mr.  Carlisle,"  said  the  old 
man  with  a  return  of  his  grudging  surliness,  "but  I 
ain't  afraid  o'  any  of  these  here  newcomers,  and 
Mr.  Louis  Hood's  never  got  no  change  out  of  me, 
so  fur." 

He  was  still  muttering  angrily  to  himself  as  he 
left  them  and  went  westward  along  the  road. 

"He's  a  queer  customer,"  said  Peter  as  he  and 
Carlisle  turned  in  the  other  direction.  "Seems 
to  have  a  grudge  against  Mr.  Hood." 


"CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME"  971 

"Yes,"  Harry  replied  to  the  upward  inflection  of 
the  last  sentence,  though  it  was  hardly  a  question. 
"Bill  has  an  old  tumble-down  blacksmith  shop 
on  the  back  edge  of  Louis's  property  and  Louis  has 
done  everything  in  the  world  to  get  him  to  sell 
it,  but  he  won't,  just  out  of  his  feeling  of  spite  against 
all  newcomers,  as  he  calls  them.  They've  had 
some  pretty  hard  words  about  it,  and  then  Louis 
did  come  down  on  the  old  man  with  a  rather  heavy 
hand  about  his  poaching.  He's  fished  every  stream 
around  here  all  his  life,  has  old  Bill  Brown." 

"Bill — who?"  asked  Peter,  sharply. 

"Brown,"  answered  Carlisle,  quickly,  and  then 
repeated  more  slowly,  "Bill — Bill  Brown." 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK" 

T>ETER  stopped  in  his  tracks  and  the  two  men 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
Then  Carlisle  repeated  the  name  again. 

"Brown,"  he  said,  confusedly.  "It  didn't  occur 

to  me  .  .  .  the  name  of  the  mur of  the 

man  who  died  last  night." 

Clancy  looked  at  him,  sharply. 

"You  think  the  man  was  murdered,  Harry?" 

Carlisle   hesitated,    and   then— 

"Yes,"  he  said,  firmly.  "In  spite  of  what  you 
said  about  there  being  no  one  anywhere  near  him; 
in  spite  of  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes  that  the 
snow  about  the  body  was  undisturbed,  except  by 
the  man's  own  footprints,  I  can't  believe  that  the 
injuries  he  sustained  were  self-inflicted."  He  paused 
an  instant,  looking  at  his  friend  questioningly, 
searchingly.  "What  do  you  think,  yourself,  Peter? 
Tell  me  honestly." 

"There's  no  use  in  leaving  you  unprepared  for 
what  the  inquest  is  sure  to  prove,  with  that  doctor 
and  Inspector  Winkle  on  the  job,"  said  Peter,  after 
a  little  thought.  "There's  no  possible  doubt  about 

98 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"  99 

the  facts.  The  man  was  murdered."  He  spoke 
the  words  with  a  solemnity  which  left  no  room 
for  uncertainty  as  to  the  sincerity  of  his  convic- 
tion. 

Carlisle  nodded  slowly,  gravely. 

"Just  my  opinion,"  he  said,  with  an  anxious  frown. 
"It's  a  damned  unpleasant  thing  to  be  mixed  up 
even  as  little  as  we  are — a  terrible  thing  for  Louis — 
on  his  own  doorstep — awful.  .  .  ."  He  was 
silent  for  a  little  then  he  went  on:  "Tell  me, 
Peter,  have  you  any  idea,  any  conception  as  to  how 
th  B  thing  Svas  done  ?  It  seems  inconceivable — 

"It's  puzzling,  puzzling  as  the  devil,  I  admit," 
answered  Peter,  slowly.  "I  don't  see,  yet,  just 
how  the  thing  was  pulled — or  why.  I  had  a  sort 
of  hunch  this  morning — given  a  tall,  very  strong 
man  .  .  .  and — another  idea.  But  don't  let's 
speculate  now  and  waste  time,  old  chap.  The 
snow's  melting  more  every  minute." 

Harrison's  eyebrows  shot  up  at  the  apparent 
irrelevance  of  the  remark.  "Why  the  snow?"  he 
asked.  "What  has  that— 

But  Peter  interrupted  impatiently: 

"It's  our  only  chance  of  proving  your  friend 
Brown's  story,  don't  you  see?  I  want  to  find  out 
if  there  really  was  a  man  in  the  Hood  place  last 
night — a  small  man,  in  a  long  coat — you  get  me, 
don't  you?  I  want  to  find  out  if  the  man  Brown 
says  he  saw  coming  out  of  that  road  over  there 


ioo  Q.  E.  D. 

had  been  on  Hood's  property — I  want  to  know 
more  about  the  car  Brown  said  he  heard:  where  it 
went  and  why  it  was  on  this  bad  road  when  there 
are  so  many  good  ones  around  here — and  I  want 
to  know  more  about  Brown  himself.  You  can 
tell  me  as  we  go.  There's  a  lot  to  do,  and  we  must 
beat  it,  Harry.  Come  on,  hurry  up,  old  top." 

Catching  Peter's  excitement,  Carlisle  hastened 
on  at  his  friend's  side  answering  his  rapid  fire  of 
questions  with  wondering  admiration,  although 
he  could  not  see,  for  the  life  of  him,  to  what  end 
the  questions  tended. 

"You've  lived  in  Fern  Hills  all  your  life,  Harry?" 
Peter  began. 

"Ever  since  I  was  four  years  old,"  Carlisle  re- 
plied, his  breath  coming  quickly,  owing  to  the  speed 
they  were  making. 

"  Known  Bill  Brown  since  you  were  a  kid  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Has  he  any  children?    Any  sons?" 

"I'm  not  sure  now.     He  had  a  son " 

"Lost   track   of  him?" 

"I  have — yes.  He  left  here  years  ago.  I  don't 
know— 

"What  was  his  name?"  interrupted  Peter. 

The  pace  did  not  seem  to  have  any  effect  on  him. 
He  was  breathing  as  easilv  as  if  he  were  standing 
still. 

"His  name  was Let  me —   -  Why — William,  I 


THE  'TARNS WORTH  LINK"          101 

suppose  after  his  father,  though  he  was  always  called 
'Wully/  His  mother  was  Scotch,  and— 

"Not  Wallie?"  Peter  asked,  eagerly. 

For  the  first  time  Harry  hesitated. 

"Wallie — Wully—  He  tried  the  two  names 

over.  "I  think  it  was  'Wully' — can't  be  perfectly 
sure — so  long  ago,  you  know." 

"A  kid  named  Walter  might  be  called  Wallie, 
you  see,"  Peter  elucidated,  "if  his  mother  was 
Scotch  .  .  .  Walter — Walter  Brown." 

"I  see — but,  Peter,  what  do  you  think?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now,  Harry.  I'm  not  clear 
myself—  -  May  not  mean  a  thing.  Brown's  almost 
as  common  a  name  as  Smith,  and  besides,  are  you 
sure  in  your  own  mind  that  the  dead  man's  name 
was  really  Brown?"  He  glanced  searchingly  at 
Harrison  as  he  put  the  question. 

"Louis  said  that  was  his  name."  Carlisle's  tone 
was  firm  and  a  little  indignant  though  his  eyes 
betrayed  the  doubt  which  he  strove,  loyally,  to 
conceal. 

Peter  nodded  comprehendingly  but  pursued  the 
subject  no  further. 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  Louis  Hood's 
property  a  moment  before  and  turned  up  the  narrow 
road.  As  has  already  been  stated,  there  was  no 
boundary  wall  along  this  side,  but  the  steep  and 
rugged  slant  of  the  ground  as  it  fell  away  from  the 
road  and  the  close  planting  of  bushes  formed  a  sort 


102  Q.  E.  D. 

of  natural  protection.  Peter's  eyes  sought  warily 
for  indications  that  someone  had  left  the  road 
at  any  given  point  since  the  snow  of  yesterday. 
Carlisle  looked,  too,  with  all  a  hunter's  trained 
observation,  but  his  mind  was  distracted  by  the 
many  thoughts  with  which  Peter's  questions  had 
filled  it. 

"Do  you  doubt  old  Bill's  story,  Peter?"  he 
asked  after  an  interval  of  unproductive  search. 

"Part  of  it  I  know  is  true,"  said  Peter  with  con- 
viction. "He  was  all  through  the  bushes  outside 
the  wall  south  of  Hood's  house  at  some  time  after 
the  snow  stopped  falling  yesterday — and  it  was  true 
about  the  woman — I  found  her  footprints." 

"You  did?"  exclaimed  Carlisle,  stopping  an 
instant  and  looking  up  at  Peter.  "You  didn't 
say  anything 

"Not  on  your  life,  I  didn't,"  said  Peter,  without 
pausing  in  his  search.  "But  they  were  there  all 
the  same." 

"What  sort  of  a  woman  was  it,  Peter,  could  you 
guess?"  Harrison  was  as  excited  as  Peter  was  calm. 

"She  was  five  feet  three  and  one  eighth  inches 
tall,  had  blue  eyes  and  pink  hair,"  said  Clancy, 
with  a  hint  of  a  smile  at  the  look  of  bewilderment 
on  his  friend's  face,  which  look  changed  at  once 
to  a  grin  when  he  saw  that  Peter  was  not  in  earnest. 
"Got  a  rise  that  time,  didn't  I,  Harry?  How  the 
devil  do  I  know  what  sort  of  a  woman  she  was? 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"         103 

Except  that  she  had  very  small  feet,  if  her  shoes 
didn't  pinch,  that  the  shoes  were  not  designed  for 
walking  because  they  had  very  high  French  heels, 
I  know  nothing  at  all  about  her.  As  a  master- 
mind detective  I'm  afraid  I'm  pretty  punk,  eh, 
Harry?" 

"Well,  part  of  old  Bill's  story  is  true,  anyway," 
said  Carlisle,  passing  the  question  with  another 
grin  and  a  wave  of  his  hand,  "and  if  part,  why 
not  all?" 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out,"  said  Peter, 
"but  we're  not  having  much  luck,  are  we?  These 
bushes  with  the  big  green  leaves  have  kept  most 
of  the  snow  off  the  ground  and  they're  so  thick — 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'd  better  do,  Harry.  Let's 
break  in  any  old  place  and  try  farther  over,  in  the 
hollow  along  this  side  of  the  brook.  There'll  be 
more  snow  there,  and  if  anywhere,  we'll  be  likely 
to  pick  up — 

"  Red-top,"  said  Carlisle,  looking  quizzically  side- 
wise,  "I  thought  you  said  you  weren't,  on  any 
account,  going  to  get  mixed  up  in  this  case." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Peter,  defensively,  "I'm  much 
too  tired." 

"You  haven't  acted  very  tired  so  far,"  persisted 
Hany,  following  Clancy  as  he  crashed  through  the 
bushes  and  slid  down  the  damp  slope  into  the 
Hood  grounds. 

"Well,    I    am   tired,"    Peter    reiterated,    "and    I 


104  Q-  E-  D- 

won't  have  anything  to  do  with  the  damned  thing 
after  the  inquest  this  afternoon.  I  deserve  a  rest, 
and  I  am  going  fishing  with  you,  savvy?  But  this 
snow's  melting  so  fast  that  somebody's  got  to  act 
quick,  and  since  this  story  came  my  way,  it's  up 
to  me  to  investigate  it  and  be  darned  sudden  about 
it.  That's  plain  duty.  The  rest  is  up  to  our 
friend  Inspector  Winkle." 

"All  right,  old  top,  I  see  your  point.  And  I'll 
be  tickled  to  death  to  take  you  fishing.  Only— 

"Only?"  asked  Peter  as  Carlisle  paused. 

"Nothing." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  something, 
old  man." 

"No — nothing,  Peter.     Come  on." 

Clancy  needed  no  encouragement  to  proceed  with 
his  quest.  Separating,  they  went  carefully  back 
and  forth  among  the  wet,  fallen  leaves,  through 
the  budding  undergrowth,  under  the  arching  bran- 
ches of  the  trees,  around  the  small  and  ever  smaller 
patches  of  the  fast  melting  snow.  Peter  was  be- 
ginning to  wonder  if  his  sense  that  the  story  of 
old  Bill  Brown  was,  in  some  way,  of  importance,  had 
played  him  false,  when  he  heard  Carlisle's  whistle. 
It  sounded  softly  from  some  little  distance,  and 
Carlisle  himself  came  into  view  around  a  hemlock 
farther  up  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  He  beck- 
oned excitedly. 

"I've  found  it,"  he  said,  exultantly,  as  soon  as 


THE  "FARNS WORTH  LINK"         105 

Peter  was  near  enough  to  hear  his  lowered  voice. 
"The  spoor  of  the  game,  eh,  Red-top?  Look  here.'* 
He  pointed  down  at  his  feet. 

Sure  enough,  there  was  a  footprint.  A  man's 
footprint  probably,  though  it  was  difficult  to  esti- 
mate the  size,  for  even  in  the  shade  the  warm  sun 
was  doing  its  appointed  work  and  the  snow  was 
receding  from  every  broken  edge.  The  outline 
was  vague  and  indeterminate,  but  was,  undoubtedly, 
that  of  a  human  foot,  the  toe  of  which  pointed  up  the 
hill. 

"Come  on,"  said  Peter,  with  a  short  nod  of  satis- 
faction, "up  the  hill  we  go." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  advanced 
quickly  up  the  slope,  head  bent,  body  well  for- 
ward, with  eyes  which  darted  hither  and  thither, 
seeking,  searching  eyes;  eyes  from  which  nothing 
escaped. 

Presently  he  stopped  and  pointed  at  the  ground, 
silently  calling  Harry's  attention  to  two  more  fast- 
disappearing  footprints,  and  then  went  on  again 
faster  than  before. 

Carlisle,  being  of  heavier  build,  was  soon  winded 
by  the  steepness  of  the  grade  and  dropped  a  little 
behind.  When  he  came  up  with  Peter  again,  the 
latter  was  standing  just  beyond  the  top  of  the  rise, 
beside  a  tall,  well-grown  young  pine  tree.  Peter 
motioned  swiftly  with  his  hand — a  gesture  plainly 
enjoining  silence  and  caution. 


io6  Q.  E.  D. 

At  the  same  instant  Harrison  caught  the  faint 
sound  of  voices  not  far  off,  beyond  a  thick  screen 
of  rhododendron.  With  the  hunter's  silent  step, 
he  swiftly  advanced  to  Clancy's  side. 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered  in  Peter's  ear. 

"Somebody  on  the  terrace  of  the  house,"  Peter 
whispered  back.  "It  doesn't  matter,  only  I'd 
rather  not  be  seen  here.  Keep  still  and  wait. 
And  look  there-,"  he  added,  again  pointing  to  the 
ground. 

From  the  foot  of  the  pine  tree  the  slope  was 
toward  the  north.  This,  and  the  fact  that  the  shadows 
cast  by  the  full-leaved  bushes  was  very  dense, 
had  served  to  protect  the  light  snow  more  here 
than  elsewhere.  In  it,  fairly  distinct,  were  three 
footprints  descending  the  hill.  They  lay  beyond 
the  shelter  of  the  pine,  under  whose  branches  what- 
ever snow  had  sifted  through  had  vanished  in  the 
thick  carpet  of  brown  needles. 

Peter  put  his  hand  up  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree  and 
leaned  around  it,  his  face  toward  the  house,  listen- 
ing. They  had  approached  so  near  that  the  voices 
were  easily  distinguishable,  though  the  words  did  not 
reach  them.  After  a  short  time  the  voices  ceased, 
the  front  door  of  the  house  closed,  and  an  instant 
later  a  car  started  at  the  east  end  of  the  terrace 
and  sped  swiftly  away  down  the  drive. 

"Now,"  said  Peter,  "I  guess  we're  free  to  investi- 
gate. Ugh!"  as  he  straightened  up,  "I'm  not  free 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"         107 

exactly.  Look  at  my  hand,  it's  stuck  fast  to  the 
tree.  Gee,  aren't  these  pines  sticky  things!  I've 
got  it  all  over  my  coat.  This  tree's  all  barked  up 
with  little  cuts  and  the  sap's  running  out  in  big 
fat  drops.  I  certainly  am  a  mess." 

But  Carlisle  was  not  listening  to  Peter's  dis- 
gusted comments  on  the  gumminess  of  pine  trees 
in  general  and  of  this  one  in  particular.  Instead, 
he  was  still  looking  through  the  tall  bushes  toward 
the  house,  which  was  quite  near  at  hand,  though  it 
was  only  possible  to  catch  small  glimpses  of  the 
southern  facade,  and  the  terrace  was  completely 
hidden  by  its  row  of  pointed  cedars. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  his  face  full  of 
concern  and  an  anxiety  which  he  had  been  fighting 
ever  since  the  previous  night.  "Peter,  old  top, 
I  hate  to  say  it,  but  I  wish  you'd  let  yourself  go  and 
take  up  this  damned  thing  seriously.  I've  been 
thinking — and  thinking — till  my  head  aches — and 
I  can't  help  being  worried  about.  .  .  .  It's 
all  so  fearfully  peculiar — all  the  circumstances.  This 
perfectly  unknown  man — and  Louis  entirely  alone 
in  the  house.  .  .  .  He  and  I  have  always  been 
friends — and  my  mother  was  devoted  to  old  Mrs. 
Hood.  ...  I  can't  help  being  afraid.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  turned  to  Clancy 
with  a  pleading  seriousness  which  sat  strangely  on 
his  whimsical,  careless  face. 

"I'm  almost  sure  that  one  of  those  voices  we  just 


io8  Q.  E.  D. 

heard  was  Louis's.  It's  time  for  him  to  be  back  and 
I  think  he's  in  the  house  now.  Wouldn't  it  be 
possible  for  you  to  go  in  and  offer — 

"Don't  see  how  it  could  be  done,  old  man," 

he  said,  slowly.  "  It  would  look Oh,  you  must  see 

how  it  would  look.  I  can't  butt  in  now,  anyway. 
Perhaps  later,  if  there  seems  to  be  any  occasion. 
And  I  think  you're  worrying  needlessly.  They 
haven't  got  anything  definite  on  Mr.  Hood.  The 
whole  thing's  too  queer,  and  our  friend  Inspector 
Winkle  will  find  it  a  hard  matter  to  prove  anything 
further  than  the  bare  fact  of  murder.  I'm  all  at 
sea  myself — though  I  have  an  idea  or  two  rattling 
around  in  my  old  bean.  ...  I  don't  see  now  just 
where  they'll  lead — and  it's  a  puzzle  to  get  a  theory 
that'll  fit  all  the  facts.  All  the  facts,"  he  repeated, 
slowly,  thoughtfully,  his  keen  mind  losing,  momen- 
tarily, all  consciousness  of  his  immediate  surroundings 
and  concentrating  itself  on  the  problem  which  more 
and  more,  against  his  inclination  and  will,  insidiously 
piqued  his  interest  and  professional  curiosity. 

"Well,  of  course,  Peter,  I  don't  want  to  try  to 
force  you,"  said  Harry,  disappointedly,  "but  I 
can't  help  wishing —  -  Oh,  well,  never  mind,  I'm  sure 
you  know  best,  old  top.  Come  on,  let's  be  moving. 
Where  do  we  go  from  here?" 

"We'll  have  a  better  look  at  those  tracks,'* 
answered  Peter,  rousing  himself  from  a  brown 
study,  "  and  then  I  guess  we  might  as  well  be  getting 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"         109 

along  home.  Look  out  for  this  tree.  It's  full  of 
juice,"  he  added.  "The  bark  is  cut  in  several 
places.  Queer  cuts,  too.  What  do  you  suppose 
could  have  made  Jem?  There's  one  down  here  on 
one  side  of  the  tree  and  another,  higher  up,  on  the 
other,  just  above  that  second  branch,  do  you  see?" 
He  pointed  to  a  long,  clean,  fresh  cut  which  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  made  with  a  sharp  knife,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  trunk,  about  ten  inches  above 
his  head. 

"I  don't  know  what  did  it,  Peter,"  said  Harry, 
absently.  "No  animal  that  I  know  of  would  try 
to  girdle  a  tree  like  that.  I  can't  be  sure.  I'm 
not  a  nature-fakir,  you  know.  But  let's  get  on,  old 
chap,  if  we  aren't  going  in  to  see  Louis.  I  must 
confess  I'm  not  keen  to  run  the  risk  of  being  seen 
prowling  around  the  place." 

"Right-o,"  said  Clancy  at  once,  stepping  care- 
fully around  the  patch  of  snow  which  had  previously 
engaged  his  attention,  until  he  was  close  enough 
to  the  footprints  for  his  purpose.  "Hm — pretty 
long  feet,  I  should  say,  if  I  didn't  know  that  the 
snow  had  melted  away  around  the  edges.  Darn 
it  all,  I  wish  we  had  come  upon  'em  sooner.  It's 
impossible  to  tell  much  about  'em  now.  Well, 
old  man,  I  guess  we  can't  do  much  here.  You  lead 
along  back  the  shortest  way  to  the  road." 

Harry  complied  with  a  sense  of  relief,  and  he  led 
the  way  down  the  steep  incline  at  a  rapid  though 


i  io  Q.  E.  D. 

silent  pace.  Taking  the  pine  tree  as  a  starting 
point,  a  rough,  little-used  path  was  faintly  discern- 
ible. Peter,  following,  glanced  carefully  about 
him  for  signs  that  someone  had  passed  that  way  be- 
fore and  recently,  but  aside  from  the  footprints 
already  noted,  which  they  passed  farther  on,  he 
found  nothing  except  a  long  sliding  scrape  in  the 
soft  earth  at  the  steepest  pitch  of  the  descent.  It 
seemed  to  indicate  that  someone,  someone  in  a 
hurry  probably,  had  almost  lost  his  footing  upon 
the  slippery,  clayey  ground  and  rotting  leaves. 

The  rough  little  trail  crossed  the  comparatively 
open  and  level  space  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  and 
again  led  up  through  a  slight  opening  in  the  thick 
shrubbery  which  bounded  the  Hood  estate.  Ad- 
vancing quickly  along  it,  they  found  themselves  in 
the  road  just  above  the  point  where  they  had  entered. 

"If  we'd  known  this  little  path,  we'd  have  made 
better  time,"  said  Peter,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
road.  "Somebody  did  know  about  it,  evidently. 
I  suppose  Bill  Brown  knows  every  inch  of  this 

countryside I  wonder.  .  .  .  But  never  mind 

that  now.  I  want  to  see  just  where  that  car  was 
that  he  spoke  about,  if  there  are  any  signs  of  it 
left.  Hurry  up,  old  top." 

Almost  at  a  run  they  descended  the  steep,  narrow 
road  and  did  not  slacken  speed  until  they  reached 
the  corner.  Here  Peter  paused  and  looked  about 
him.  He  could  see  only  a  short  distance  along  the 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"         in 

road  to  the  right,  for  it  curved  sharply  from  west 
to  south  and  the  view  was  obstructed  by  the  under- 
growth and  a  number  of  small  trees. 

Clancy  had  stopped  only  a  second. 

r'This  way,  Harry,"  he  said,  motioning  with  his 
right  hand.  "Must  have  been  around  that  bend, 
or  Brown  would  have  seen  it  before  he  got  this 
far."  He  looked  at  the  rutted  road  bed  as  they 
went  swiftly  on.  "Not  much  traffic  through  here, 
is  there?"  he  remarked.  "We  haven't  seen  a  soul, 
except  Brown,  on  the  road  and  there  are  only  one 
or  two  fresh  wheel  marks." 

"Hardly  any  one  comes  through  here,"  said 
Harry,  "and  I  should  think  no  one  would  willingly 
come  this  way  in  a  car.  There's  a  good  macadam 
road,  the  one  we  came  up  this  morning,  just  beyond 
Wallingford's  place  here,"  he  motioned  toward  the 
left,  "and  this  runs  into  it  a  little  farther  up  the 
hill.  There  are  only  the  three  places  on  this  little 
cut-off:  Wallingford's,  here;  Hood's,  farther  back; 
and  the  Mayhew  place  you  remember  is  here  on  our 
right.  None  of  them  has  an  entrance  on  this  bad 
road  and  unless  someone  had  lost  the  way— 

"Perhaps  someone  did  lose  the  way,"  said  Peter, 
stopping  short  just  beyond  the  turn.  "At  any  rate, 
there  has  been  a  car  this  far.  Look,"  and  he  pointed 
down  to  the  unmistakable  track  of  tires  in  the  damp 
earth. 

The  snow  here  was  completely  melted  away,  but 


ii2  Q.  E.  D. 

the  ground  beneath  it  had  not  been  frozen  hard  when 
the  snow  fell.  The  road  bed  was  now  quite  soft, 
and  if  Brown's  story  could  be  trusted,  evidently  had 
been  on  the  previous  evening,  for  the  tire  marks 
were  plain  to  be  seen. 

Peter  motioned  Carlisle  aside  while  he  carefully 
and  quickly  examined  them. 

"Farnsworth  Link  Non-skids,"  he  muttered  half 
to  himself.  "Most  popular  expensive  tire  on  the 
market.  Must  have  been  a  good  car  .  .  .  and 
the  tires  pretty  nearly  new.  See  how  sharp  the 
pattern  is  here — and  over  there."  He  moved 
restlessly  up  and  down  and  from  side  to  side  of  the 
road.  "I  have  it  all  clear,"  he  said  after  a  mo- 
ment. "A  child  could  tell  what  happened.  He 
came  down  this  far"-  -  again  he  pointed — "backed 
in  over  those  dead  leaves,  probably;  turned,  and 
ran  the  car  off  here  to  the  side  behind  these  bushes. 
Must  have  been  a  heavy  car  and  must  have  stayed 
here  some  little  time.  See  how  she  sunk  in  here 
in  the  ditch  where  the  ground  was  wet?  Then  he 
went  back  up  the  hill,  of  course,  since  there  weren't 
any  tracks  beyond  this  point.  So  far  Bill  Brown's 
story  is  Q-K.  There  was  a  woman  and  there  was 
a  man,  and  also  there  was  a  car.  But  where  does 
that  take  us?" 

"If  you  mean  the  road,"  said  Carlisle,  eager  to 
be  of  service,  "it  takes  us  into  the  main  road  from 
Fern  Hills  to  Lounsberry,  where  the  good  road 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"         113 

ends.  We  might  as  well  go  home  that  way.  It's 
just  as  short  from  here  as  to  go  back  by  Louis's 
and  the  walking  is  better  after  we  pass  this  first 
stretch." 

"All  to  the  good,"  said  Peter,  and  without  more 
words  he  went  rapidly  forward,  keeping  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  surface  of  the  road  bed. 

He  said  nothing  more  until  they  reached  the 
spot  where  the  narrow  road  debouched  at  a  slant 
upon  the  stone-paved  highway.  He  had  found  the 
characteristic  "Farnsworth  Link"  more  or  less  con- 
tinuously all  along  the  way,  two  tracks  often  over- 
lapping each  other,  but  at  the  intersection  of  the 
road  the  two  tracks  became  distinct,  one  turning 
to  the  right  and  the  other  to  the  left  at  the  point 
where  they  were  lost  upon  the  macadam  pavement. 

"He  came  one  way  and  went  back  another," 
said  Peter,  half  aloud.  "Now,  which  way  did  he 
come  and  which  way  did  he  go?"  He  cast  back  a 
few  paces,  Carlisle  following  every  movement  with 
intense  interest.  He  could  not  see,  in  his  own  mind, 
how  Peter  could  attach  any  special  importance  to 
the  movements  of  the  mysterious  car,  but  this 
glimpse  which  he  was  having  into  the  methods  of 
a  competent  detective  filled  him  with  almost  pleas- 
urable thrills. 

"I've  got  it,"  said  Peter  in  a  moment.  "You 
see  this  place  where  the  marks  lie  one  on  top  of  the 
other?  Now  follow  the  line  from  here  on.  It's 


n4  Q-  E-  D- 

nearly  continuous,  and  the  top  track  leads  to  the 
right." 

"But  that's  toward  Lounsberry,"  cried  Harry, 
"and  it's  there  the  good  road  stops.  What  could 
any  one  want  to  go  to  Lounsberry  for?" 

"What  kind  of  a  place  is  it?"  asked  Peter,  quickly. 

"Why,  just  a  little  village  on  a  branch  line  of  the 
D.  L.  and  W.  There's  nothing  there  but  a  mill 
and  a  few  cottages." 

"Is  it  far  off?" 

"Not  more  than  a  mile  or  so." 

"What  is  there  between  here  and  there?  Any 
large  places?" 

"No,  nothing  but  farms  as  I  remember,"  said 
Carlisle.  "Look  here,  Peter,  what  do  you  think — 

"Don't  ask  me  what  I  think  while  I'm  doing  it, 
old  chap,"  answered  Peter,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
keen  blue  eyes.  "I've  got  a  sort  of  hunch,  but 
I  don't  just  know  what  it  is.  Only,  for  my  own 
satisfaction  I'd  like  to  see  for  myself  what's  along 
this  road.  D'you  mind  beating  it  over  to  Louns- 
berry with  me?  It  may  not  amount  to  a  hill  of 
beans,  but  I'd  just  like  to  know  what  chances  there 
were  for  someone  to  have  seen  this  car,  and  per- 
haps what  sort  of  person  or  persons  were  in  it." 

Harry  agreed  readily.  He  was  glad  of  each  new 
indication  that  Clancy  was  becoming  more  and 
more  interested  in  the  case.  He  knew  enough  of 
his  friend's  ruling  passion  to  hope,  in  spite  of  his 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"         115 

protests  to  the  contrary,  that  he  would  become  so 
involved  in  the  clues  of  his  own  finding  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  give  it  up.  So  far  he  had  no  suspicion 
that  Peter  might  turn  up  anything  inimical  to  Hood's 
interests.  He  had  no  real  doubt  as  to  Louis's 
innocence,  but  he  could  not  reason  himself  out 
of  the  feeling  that  there  was  a  mystery  here  which 
might  prove  menacing  to  his  friend's  peace  of  mind, 
and  no  one  would  be  so  likely  to  unravel  the  tangle 
as  Peter  Clancy. 

"And  this  is  the  end  of  the  road,"  said  Peter, 
glancing  about  him  when  they  reached  the  small 
railroad  station  at  Lounsberry.  "Well,  we  haven't 
made  much  on  this  bet,  I'll  tell  the  world.  Nothing 
but  those  small  farms  along  the  road,  and  the 
houses  well  back.  Everyone  about  ready  for  bed 
probably  at  seven  o'clock  last  night.  Very  little 
passing  at  that  time,  I  should  judge  by  the  few 
flivvers  and  teams  we  have  met.  Well,  it  was  on  an 
off  chance,  anyway.  Sorry  I've  taken  you —  Oh, 
my  eye,  Harry!"  he  broke  off,  excitedly.  "Here's 
something,  anyway." 

Peter  stooped  down  and  indicated  with  extended 
forefinger.  In  the  unpaved  turning  space  along- 
side the  tiny  station,  partly  obliterated  by  passing 
wheels,  was  the  tell-tale  Farnsworth  Link. 

"I  don't  make  much  of  that,"  objected  Car- 
lisle, as  he  followed  Peter  toward  the  station  en- 
trance. "Whoever  drove  the  car  didn't  know 


n6  Q.  E.  D. 

the  country  very  well,  got  into  the  bad  road  down 
there  and  went  the  wrong  way  when  he  came  back 
to  the  good  one.  This  was  the  first  real  easy  place 
to  turn  and  he  may  not  have  realized  before — 

"You  wouldn't  need  to  run  right  up  to  the  station 
platform  to  get  room  to  turn,"  interrupted  Peter. 
"See  that  mark  just  at  the  edge  of  the  planks? 
He  may  have  come  in  to  ask  the  way.  I'm  going 
to  see/* 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke  and  entered  the 
little  waiting  room,  Harry  following  close  at  his 
heels. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Peter,  pleasantly,  leaning 
down  a  little  to  look  through  the  brass  grille  of 
the  ticket  window. 

"Tap-tap — click-click,"  came  from  the  telegraph 
instrument.  The  agent  did  not  even  turn  his  head. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Peter  remarked  to  the 
broad  back  which  remained  persistently  turned 
(as  is  the  manner  of  country  station  agents  all  the 
world  over)  in  his  direction. 

Peter  waited  in  exasperated  silence  till  the  man 
had  finished  leisurely  transcribing  a  message,  made 
several  entries  in  various  small  books  and  on  vari- 
coloured slips  of  paper,  and  at  last  turned  to  the 
window. 

"Where  to?"  asked  the  agent,  yawning. 

"To  nowhere,"  said  Peter,  impatiently.  "I  just 
want  to  know  how  late  you're  on  duty  here." 


THE  "FARNSWORTH  LINK"          117 

"Six  o'clock,"  said  the  man,  indifferently. 

"Does  the  night  agent  live  near  here?"  asked 
Peter,  quickly. 

"Ain't  any  night  agent,"  drawled  the  man. 
"Station  closes  at  six.  Have  to  get  your  ticket  on 
the  train,"  and  he  turned  away  from  the  window 
with  the  slow,  bovine  movement  of  the  intellectually 
inert. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Peter.  "Let  me  have  a 
time-table  if  you  please." 

The  agent  slowly  selected  one  from  a  pile  on  the 
shelf  and  wearily  thrust  it  under  the  brass  lattice. 
Peter  caught  it  up  swiftly  but  he  did  not  open  it 
until  he  and  Carlisle  were  outside  the  station. 

"There's  a  train  to  New  York  at  6:59,"  he  re- 
marked, pausing  on  the  platform  to  run  his  eye 
over  the  time-table. 

"But  if  you  want  to  go  to  town,  Peter,"  said 
Harrison  in  surprise,  "the  Fern  Hills  station  is 
much  nearer  than  this.  And  you  aren't  going  to 
leave  us  to-night  surely.  You  said 

"I  say  a  lot  of  things,  Harry,"  said  Clancy,  re- 
garding his  friend  with  a  look  in  which  a  quizzical 
humour  and  an  underlying  seriousness  were  strangely 
blended.  "I'd  have  taken  my  oath  yesterday  that 
nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  would  keep  me  from 
spending  the  next  four  days  fishing  with  you — 

"And  now?"  questioned  Carlisle,  eagerly. 

"And  now,  I  don't  know,  old  top,"  said  Peter, 


ii8  Q.  E.  D. 

thoughtfully.  "I  don't  know.  Hang  it  all! — I 
wonder — I  wonder.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  down  at  the  print  of  the  Farnsworth 
Link  so  close  to  the  platform  edge. 

"The  station  was  closed  at  six  o'clock  last  night, 
and  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  lights.  No 
one  would  have  gone  there  to  ask  the  way.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  train  to  New  York  at  6:59.  ...  I 
wonder." 


CHAPTER  X 
"L.  H." 

FT  WAS  nearly  lunch  time  when  the  two  young 
men  ascended  the  shallow  steps  of  the  comfor- 
table old  Carlisle  home.  They  had  spoken  but 
little  after  they  left  the  station  at  Lounsberry. 
Peter  had  fallen  into  a  fit  of  deep  abstraction  which 
Carlisle  considerately  forebore  to  disturb,  though 
he  would  have  given  worlds  to  know  what  was  pass- 
ing in  his  friend's  mind. 

Clancy  roused  himself  when  the  door  was  opened 
by  the  versatile  and  invaluable  Hoki,  and  it  was  with 
a  face  cleared  of  every  anxiety  that  he  met  Mrs. 
Carlisle  in  the  living  room. 

The  old  lady  rallied  them  about  their  empty  creels 
and  pretended  to  think  that  the  "rotten"  leaders 
were  only  an  excuse,  though  if  any  one  else  had  cast 
an  aspersion  on  Harry's  skill,  she  would  have  been 
up  in  arms  at  once. 

"Where's  Kent?"  asked  Harrison  when  they  had 
finished  explaining  their  morning's  lack  of  success 
in  the  sporting  line.  "He  didn't  mind  our  going 
out  without  him,  did  he,  Mother?  I  looked  in  his 
room  when  I  first  got  up  to  see  if  he'd  like  to  go  along, 

119 


120  Q.  E.  D. 

and  he  was  sleeping  so  peacefully  I  didn't  have  the 
heart  to  wake  him.  Somehow,  I  can't  quite  see 
him  in  the  role  of  the  man  who  gets  the  fish  out  of 
bed  in  the  morning  to  catch  'em.  Wouldn't  think 
it  polite  to  disturb  'em,  I  imagine,"  he  laughed. 
"Doesn't  he  strike  you  that  way,  Peter?  He's  so 
elegant  and  correct.  Gives  plain  chaps  like  us  a 
lot  to  live  up  to,  eh,  what  ?  I  hope  you  explained 
to  him,  Mother— 

"Oh,  I  did,  Harry,  and  he  didn't  mind  at  all.  It 
was  just  as  well,  anyway,  for  he  had  a  telephone  call 
from  his  office,  and  had  to  go  back  for  the  morning 
to  attend  to  some  business  matter  that  had  come  up 
unexpectedly." 

"Is  he  going  to  duck  this  affair  this  afternoon? 
Gee,  I  wish  I  could."  Harrison  spoke  feelingly. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  such  expressions,  Harry. 
They  sound  so  very  common,  dear.  No,  Mr.  Kent 
will  be  back  in  time  for  the — the  inquest,  which,  by 
the  way,  is  for  three  o'clock.  Louis  telephoned 
somebody  in  Morris ville  before  he  left  for  town. 
They  want  you  all  over  there  at  three.  Louis  said  he'd 
be  back  this  morning,  and  I  tried  to  get  him  to  come 
here  for  lunch,  but  he  said  that  John  and  Eliza 
would  be  out  in  plenty  of  time  to  give  him  something 
to  eat  at  his  own  house,  and  he  thought  he'd  bet- 
ter- 

"Too  bad  for  him  to  be  lunching  all  alone  in  that 
spooky,  shut-up  house,"  broke  in  Harry,  regret- 


"L.  H."  121 

fully.  "It's  enough  to  give  any  one  the  creeps 
after  what  has  happened.  We'll  drive  over  and 
pick  him  up  when  we  go  to  Morrisville.  I'll  'phone 
him  right  away  and  then  we'd  better  change,  old 
Red-top.  We'll  have  time  before  lunch,  won't 
we,  Mother?  By  the  way,  is  Rob  coming  back  here 
or  are  we  to  meet  him  in  Morrisville?" 

"He  said  he'd  meet  you  over  there,"  said  Mrs. 
Carlisle,  "but  I  think  he'll  come  back  with  you, 
and  go  up  to  the  Club  to-morrow  if  you  decide  to 
go.  He  left  his  tackle  here,  and  his  car,  and  went 
in  by  train  since  it's  so  much  quicker.  He  hadn't 
a  great  deal  of  time." 

"That's  a  good  idea.  I  hope  we  can  go  up  to  the 
Club.  Rob  was  almost  as  keen  for  it  as  old  Red-top. 
I  hope  I  haven't  said  too  much  about  the  sport 
up  there.  After  our  rotten  luck  this  morning — 

Harrison  talked  on  in  his  usual  voluble,  rambling, 
cheery  way  all  the  while  that  his  mother  was  pres- 
ent. The  tragedy  which  over-shadowed  the  house 
of  their  friend  was  scarcely  mentioned  at  luncheon 
and  even  on  the  drive  over  to  Morrisville  Carlisle 
chatted  pleasantly  on  indifferent  topics,  principally 
connected  with  sport,  getting  small  response  from 
Louis  Hood  whom  they  picked  up  according  to 
arrangement,  but,  apparently,  quite  oblivious  to  his 
old  friend's  pre-occupation  and  anxiety.  In  his 
efforts  to  take  Louis's  mind  off  the  puzzling  and 
serious  question  in  hand  he  was  aided  and  abetted 


122  Q.  E.  D. 

by  Peter,  but  their  united  efforts  met  with  poor 
success.  Hood  spoke  very  little.  Once  he  broke 
into  some  remark  of  Harrison's  with  an  abruptness 
which  showed  that  he  was  unconscious  of  there 
being  any  other  subject  under  discussion. 

"Did  you  see  the  paper  this  morning,  Harry?" 
he  asked,  nervously  snapping  open  and  closing  the 
Oxford  glasses  which  he  wore  on  a  narrow  black 
guard  around  his  neck.  "There  was  a  short  ac- 
count  

"Yes,  we  saw  it  when  we  came  in  to  lunch,  Louis, 
just  a  brief  statement " 

"You  didn't  see  the  Planet?  No.  You  wouldn't 
be  likely  to.  One  of  the  boys  in  the  office  showed  it 
to  Hill  and  Hill  called  my  attention  to  it,  when  I 
stopped  in  there  for  a  minute  on  my  way  out.  I 
hope  they  aren't  going  to  try  to  make  political 
capital  out  of  this  unfortunate  accident." 

Hood  spoke  as  if  thinking  aloud.  He  relapsed 
into  silence  after  that  and  remained  deep  in  troub- 
led thought  for  the  remainder  of  the  way. 

They  reached  the  County  Court  House  a  few  min- 
utes before  three,  and  found  the  coroner  and  his 
jury  already  assembled.  The  two  policemen  who 
had  guarded  the  terrace  on  the  previous  night  were 
there.  Also  Inspector  Winkle,  looking  dark,  heavy, 
and  portentous.  He  glanced  at  them  gravely  from 
under  his  thick,  bulging  brows  and  favoured  Peter 
with  the  ghost  of  a  grim  smile. 


"L.  H."  123 

Several  reporters,  lured  from  New  York  more 
by  the  prominence  of  the  man  on  whose  property 
the  tragedy  had  occurred  than  by  any  interest  in  the 
crime  itself,  sat  at  a  table  on  one  side  of  the  bare 
room.  One  was  chewing  gum  vigorously;  another 
was  working  over  a  balky  fountain  pen,  while  a 
third  was  tilted  back  in  his  chair  viewing  the  scene 
through  sleepy,  half-closed  lids. 

Doctor  Moore  and  Robert  Kent  appeared  almost 
immediately  and  the  coroner  proceeded  at  once  to 
business. 

After  eliciting  for  the  benefit  of  the  jury  the 
various  facts  of  the  finding  of  the  body,  he  called 
on  Dr.  Bernard  Moore  for  his  testimony  as  to  its 
condition  and  the  inferences  to  be  drawn  there- 
from. 

The  doctor  made  his  affirmations  with  a  clear- 
ness and  conviction  which  left  little  room  for  doubt 
in  the  minds  of  the  jurors. 

The  man  had  been  dead  not  more  than  an  hour, 
Doctor  Moore  believed.  The  wound  in  his  throat 
might  have  been  self-inflicted,  but  he  had  died 
of  a  broken  neck,  which  latter  fact  could  only  be 
accounted  for  by  a  fall  from  a  height  or  some  such 
accident  (which  there  was  no  reason  to  deduce), 
or  he  had  been  killed  in  a  struggle  with  an  over- 
powering adversary.  The  two  injuries,  taken  to- 
gether, would  leave  absolutely  no  room  for  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  an  intelligent  jury  that  the  man  had 


124  Q-  E.  D. 

been  murdered.  Thus,  Dr.  Bernard  Moore,  and 
thus  ended  his  testimony. 

The  jury  looked  at  each  other  and  nodded,  their 
minds  evidently  entirely  made  up  and  at  rest. 
They  were  all  local  men  and  they  knew  Doctor  Moore's 
ability  and  professional  standing.  The  man,  Wal- 
ter Brown,  a  stranger  to  all  of  them,  had  been  mur- 
dered, and  that  was  the  only  fact  in  which  they  were 
especially  concerned.  Imperceptibly  their  attitude 
of  attention  relaxed,  and  it  was  only  after  Peter 
Clancy  took  the  stand  that  their  slow  minds  began 
to  take  in  the  fact  that  they  were  not  dealing  with 
an  ordinary  case,  interesting  on  account  of  its  being 
an  unusual  occurrence  in  that  community,  but  other- 
wise unimportant. 

Almost  as  soon  as  Peter  began  to  speak,  a  change 
was  noticeable  among  the  gentlemen  of  the  press. 
The  man  who  had  been  tilted  back  in  his  chair 
brought  his  own  two  legs  and  the  two  front  legs  of 
the  chair  to  the  ground  simultaneously,  and  from  that 
moment  the  swift  scratching  of  pens  was  audible  in 
every  pause  of  the  proceedings. 

Clancy  brought  out  with  all  the  force  of  his 
trained  intellect  the  curious  circumstance  that, 
though  the  man  had  died  instantly  according  to 
Doctor  Moore  and  the  evidence  of  himself  and  others, 
still,  and  in  spite  of  that  fact,  there  had  been  no 
sign  of  a  struggle  and  there  had  been  no  footprints 
other  than  Brown's  own  within  several  yards  of 


"L.  H."  125 

the  body.  He  made  it  plain  that  the  lights  on  the 
terrace  had  turned  the  night  into  day;  that  every 
mark  on  the  newly  fallen  snow  had  been  clear  and 
distinct;  that  both  he  and  Mr.  Carlisle  were,  for 
different  reasons,  trained  observers  and  that  there 
could  be  absolutely  no  question  of  this  strange 
and  peculiar  fact.  Peter  then  requested  that  the 
carefully  measured  diagram  which  he  had  made  for 
Inspector  Winkle  be  passed  among  the  jury,  that 
his  statement  might  be  perfectly  clear  to  their 
minds,  and  asked  them,  in  these  circumstances,  to 
consider  whether  or  not  a  theory  of  suicide  was  not 
quite  as  probable  as  a  theory  of  murder. 

The  paper  torn  from  Clancy's  notebook  made 
its  round.  Each  juryman  looked  at  it  with  inter- 
est and  as  much  intelligence  as  Nature  had  vouch- 
safed him.  At  length  it  was  returned  to  Inspector 
Winkle,  who  then  took  up  the  tale. 

He  cross-questioned  Peter  first,  but  could  not 
shake  any  of  his  assertions.  He  then  repeated  his 
queries  to  Harrison  Carlisle,  with  the  same  result. 
After  that  he  examined  Robert  Kent,  who  reluc- 
tantly admitted  that  the  matter  of  the  footprints  had 
escaped  his  attention  but  that  he  had  absolutely 
no  doubt  that  the  facts  were  as  stated. 

"You  have  heard  what  these  gentlemen  have 
said,"  Inspector  Winkle  turned  to  the  jury  at 
last,  and  with  a  gesture  which  was  habitual  to  the 
man  he  wagged  a  blunt  forefinger  back  and  forth 


126  Q.  E.  D. 

on  an  otherwise  immovable  fist.  "Now  mark 
what  I  am  going  to  say."  His  voice  was  fraught 
with  heavy  intent.  "When  I  first  saw  the  body  and 
the  tracks  in  the  snow  about  it,  they  were  all  con- 
fused except  this  one  line  of  footprints  of  the  de- 
ceased, which  Mr.  Clancy  has  been  telling  you 
about — "  He  paused,  and  looked  slowly  along  the 
line  of  faces  of  the  jury  as  though  he  would  make 
sure  that  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  him — "and  one 
other  line  of  footprints  leading  straight  to  the 
body — which  I  ascertained  to  be  those  of  the  owner 
of  the  house,  Mr.  Louis  Hood.  You  will  take 
notice  that  all  three  of  the  gentlemen  who  have 
given  their  testimony  in  this  matter  are  old  friends 
of  Mr.  Hood's  and  one  of  them  isn't  perfectly  sure 
that  the  conditions  were  as  stated.  He  only  thinks 
so." 

The  inspector  paused  to  give  the  innuendo  time 
to  sink  in.  Then  he  went  on: 

"The  man  Brown  was  armed  with  a  short  Colt's 
from  which  one  shot  had  been  fired.  I  know  where 
that  was  done.  I  found  the  bullet  in  the  house- 
keeper's room  in  Mr.  Hood's  house.  He  says  that 
Brown  tried  to  kill  himself  there  and  that  he,  Mr. 
Hood,  I  mean,  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  able  to 
prevent  it.  This  might  seem  to  indicate  that 
Brown,  being  desperate,  did  commit  suicide  later. 
You  will  observe  that  I  wish  you  to  draw  your  own 
conclusions.  I  don't  want  to  force  my  own  opinion 


"L.  H."  127 

on  anybody.  But  just  bear  in  mind  that  a  shot 
was  fired  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  obviously 
from  the  pistol  Brown  carried  and  probably  by  his 
own  hand;  that  some  time  during  the  interview 
Mr.  Hood  gave  this  man  whom  he  scarcely  knew,  or 
hadn't  seen  for  a  long  time,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  a  check  for  one  thousand  dollars." 

Inspector  Winkle  glanced  over  to  the  table  occu- 
pied by  the  representatives  of  the  press  to  see  how 
this  shot  told.  The  reporter  from  the  Planet 
stopped  his  ruminative  jaws  for  an  instant,  bit  the 
top  of  his  fountain  pen,  cast  a  keen  look  at  Louis 
Hood  and  began  writing  again,  faster  than  ever. 

"That  was  a  large  sum,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to 
give  to  a  mere  acquaintance,  out  of  pure  philan- 
thropy, and  it's  enough  to  make  us  think  better  of 
our  fellow  men."  The  inspector  made  little  attempt 
to  conceal  the  covert  sarcasm  of  this  remark.  "If 
there  had  been  an  attempt  at  blackmail,  it  might, 
perhaps,  bear  a  different  explanation,  but  at  present 
we  have  no  other  indication  of  any  such  attempt.  It 
seems  a  pity,  however,  that  the  poor  fellow,  Brown, 
didn't  live  to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  so  handsome  a  gift. 
This,  in  itself,  might  be  considered  a  reason  for  his 
not  having  committed  suicide,  if  there  were  no 
others;  but,  aside  from  the  plain  inference  to  be 
drawn  from  the  testimony  of  Doctor  Moore,  the  man 
did  not  shoot  himself,  though  he  was  armed  with  a 
revolver,  and  though  he  died  instantaneously,  there 


128  Q.  E.  D. 

was  no  weapon  capable  of  inflicting  the  wound  in  his 
neck  found  anywhere  near  the  body.  Against  this 
you  have  the  statement  of  Mr.  Hood's  friends  about 
the  evidence  in  the  snow  on  the  terrace,  and  you  are 
bound  to  give  that  its  proper  weight.  But— 
Again  the  inspector  made  one  of  his  heavy  dramatic 
pauses.  "But  I  beg  you  to  remember  that  the 
snow  is  now  entirely  gone  and  with  it  all  record  which 
it  might  have  contained.  The  house  faces  the  south, 
the  lawn  and  terrace  are  open  to  the  sun,  and  the  snow 
had  almost  entirely  melted  away  before  I  got  back 
there  this  morning.  It  was  an  advantage,  in  a  way, 
for  it  enabled  me  to  make  perfectly  sure  that  there 
was  no  knife  or  other  sharp  weapon  anywhere  near 
the  place  where  the  body  was  found;  no  safety  razor 
blade,  as  has  been  suggested."  Here  he  glanced 
aside  at  Peter  Clancy,  and  met  and  held  the  younger 
man's  keen  blue  eye  with  the  ominous  portent  of  his 
own.  "Nothing,  in  fact,  except"-— he  spoke  very 
slowly,  giving  each  word  it  s  full  weight  of  signifi- 
cance— "at  a  short  stone's  throw  from  the  body- 
below  on  the  lawn — I  found  this." 

From  his  ample  side  pocket  he  drew  forth  a  rather 
long  paper  packet.  He  pulled  off  the  rubber  band 
which  held  it,  opened  it  slowly,  and  displayed  a  large 
clasp  knife  with  a  rough  horn  handle  and  an  open 
blade  of  some  three  inches  in  length,  with  a  keen, 
slightly  curved  cutting  edge  ending  in  a  sharp  point. 
He  balanced  it  in  his  hand,  and  went  on,  looking  at 


"L.  H."  129 

it  meditatively,  and  addressing  himself  to  the  ex- 
cited jurymen. 

"You  will  see  that  there  are  very  slight — almost 
no  traces  of  rust,  plainly  indicating  that  it  hadn't 
been  lying  there  long.  You  will  also  note  that  it  is 
very  sharp;  and  further — that  there  are  the  initials 
L.  H.  on  the  little  plate  in  the  centre  of  the  handle. 
There's  some  trick  about  closing  it  that  I  don't  under- 
stand. Perhaps  you'd  show  us  how  it's  done,  Mr. 
Hood." 

"I'll  show  you,"  broke  in  Harrison  Carlisle,  im- 
petuously. "  It's  an  ordinary  fishing  knife,  such  as 
we  all  carry.  You  don't  have  to  use  both  hands  to 
open  it,  and  there's  no  danger  of  its  closing  on  your 
fingers;  you  just  press  that  button  in  the  side." 

"I'd  rather  let  Mr.  Hood  show  the  jury  how  the 
trick  is  done,  Mr.  Carlisle,"  said  the  inspector,  im- 
patiently, as  he  put  the  knife  into  Hood's  hand.  "It 
is  your  property,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Hood?" 

Louis  Hood  had  been  sitting  forward,  his  elbow 
resting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  his  chin  on  his  left 
hand,  the  fingers  of  which  lay  across  and  covered  his 
mouth.  His  face  was  still,  almost  stony  in  its  rigid 
immobility.  Mechanically  he  took  the  knife,  looked 
at  it  an  instant,  touched  the  spring,  closed  it  by 
pressing  the  back  of  the  blade  against  the  chair  arm, 
and  with  a  slight  nod  returned  it  to  Inspector  Winkle. 

"Will  you  please  acknowledge  that  it  is  your 
knife?"  said  the  old  officer,  severely. 


i3o  Q.  E.  D. 

Hood  shifted  a  little  in  his  chair  and  answered, 
"Yes,  it  is,  or  was  mine." 

"Why  do  you  say  'or  was',  Mr.  Hood?"  asked  the 
inspector,  sharply.  "  Do  you  mean  to  imply— 

"Only  that  I  lost  it  a  long  while  ago,"  answered 
Hood,  coldly.  "I  haven't  seen  it  for  several  years.5* 

"Can  you  imagine  who  might  have  had  it?" 
Winkle's  voice  was  as  keen  as  his  glance.  "This 
man  Brown,  for  instance,  could  he?" 

Hood  shook  his  head  with  every  appearance  of 
being  genuinely  in  the  dark. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Walter  Brown  hadn't  been  East 
for  nearly  ten  years,  and  it  wasn't  more  than  two 
or  three  years  ago  at  most  that  I  lost  it." 

The  inspector  put  his  thick  thumb  between  his 
teeth  and  bit  it  softly  and  thoughtfully.  The  knife 
was  opened  again  and  passed  around  to  the  jury. 
Even  the  reporters  asked  for  and  obtained  a  nearer 
view. 

When  the  knife  came  back  into  Winkle's  posses- 
sion again,  he  rose  and  signified  to  the  coroner  that  he 
had  nothing  more  to  say.  The  jury  filed  out  of  the 
room  and  were  gone  some  time. 

Those  most  interested  in  the  outcome  awaited 
their  return  in  tense  silence.  The  faint  buzz  of 
voices  from  the  other  occupants  of  the  room  showed 
what  an  intense  excitement  the  unexpectedly  sensa- 
tional disclosures  had  awakened. 

Peter,  in  spite  of  his  contention  to  the  contrary, 


"L.  H."  131 

had  little  doubt  as  to  the  conclusion  which  the  jury 
would  reach,  since  it  seemed  to  be  composed  of  men 
rather  above  the  grade  of  ordinary  intelligence. 

He  was  not  surprised,  therefore,  when  they  filed 
slowly  back  and  returned  their  verdict — "Murder  at 
the  hand  of  person  or  persons  unknown. " 

There  was  a  loud  stir  in  the  room  as  soon  as  the 
verdict  was  announced.  The  reporters  rushed  pell- 
mell  for  the  nearest  'phone,  jostling  each  other  in 
their  efforts  to  be  the  first  to  spread  the  story,  "a 
ripper,"  as  one  of  them  characterized  it,  in  the  pages 
of  their  several  journals. 

The  room  emptied  itself  quickly,  and  Carlisle 
found  himself  upon  the  pavement  with  his  three 
friends  without  having  any  distinct  idea  as  to  how  he 
reached  there,  so  concerned  was  he  in  behalf  of  one  of 
them. 

"You'll  come  home  with  me,  Louis,  won't  you?" 
he  asked,  pleadingly,  clasping  Hood's  arm  with  a 
boy's  impatient  loyalty.  "Come  on,  now,  old  man. 
We'll  be  in  time  for  a  cup  of  tea  with  Mother,  only 
we  don't  have  to  take  tea.  I've  got  some  of  the  old 
hooch  left,  thank  God.  Come  on,  all  you  fellows. 
Jump  into  the  car  and  let's  be  off.  Hop  in,  Rob, 
Mother's  expecting  you  back." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Kent,  with  a  slightly  constrained 
glance  at  Louis  Hood.  "I've  got  to  get  back  to  town 
to-night,  and  I'll  probably  have  to  stay  there  most 
of  to-morrow.  Some  trouble  about  the  contracts 


I32  Q.  E.  D. 

for  my  silly  moving-picture  venture  that  you're 
always  ridiculing,  Harry.  But  I'll  be  out  again  to- 
morrow evening,  if  you  don't  mind,  and  if  you  should 
decide  to  go  up  to  the  Club " 

"Don't  know  about  that,"  said  Harrison,  un- 
certainly. "We'll  have  to  see.  I'll  'phone  you 
later,  but  come  out,  anyway.  Sure  you  can't  come 
over  now?" 

"No,  old  chap.  So  sorry.  Please  present  my 
compliments  and  regrets  to  your  mother.  I'll  have 
just  time  to  get  the  4:38,  which  is  the  next  train  from 
here.  How  about  you,  Mr.  Clancy  ?  Do  you  go  back 
with  Harrison  or  are  you  going  in  to  town  ?  If  so, 
I'll  be  very  glad  of  your  company."  Robert  Kent 
habitually  spoke  with  a  certain  elaboration  of  manner 
which  rarely  failed  to  tickle  Carlisle's  unconventional 
humour.  He  was  too  much  concerned  with  the  ugly 
turn  affairs  had  taken  to  notice  it  now. 

"You  aren't  going  to  desert  us,  are  you,  Peter?" 
he  asked,  swiftly,  noting  Clancy's  hesitation. 
"Surely " 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  go  back  to  New  York,  Harry," 
Peter  said,  reluctantly.  "I'll  explain  to  you  as  we 
go.  We  mustn't  keep  Mr.  Kent  or  he'll  miss  his 
train,  and  I  want  to  catch  the  earliest  one  I  can  make 
from  Fern  Hills.  I'll  just  grab  a  few  things  and  say 
good-bye  to  Mrs.  Carlisle,  and— 

"If  you're  not  going  with  me,  Mr.  Clancy,"  said 
Robert  Kent  with  polite  regret,  glancing  at  his  watch, 


"L.  H."  133 

"I'll  be  getting  on.  Good-bye.  I'll  come  out  and 
pick  up  my  traps  to-morrow  in  any  case,  Harry,  but 
you'll  'phone  me.  I'm  afraid  I  must  hasten  a  bit. 
Good-bye." 

He  raised  his  hat  at  arm's  length  and  hurried  off 
without  offering  his  hand  to  any  of  them,  the  omission 
of  which  ceremony  caused  Harrison  Carlisle  some 
surprise. 

"What's  got  into  Kent?"  he  exclaimed  as  they 
took  their  places  in  the  car.  "He  seemed  awfully 
queer,  somehow.  Did  you  notice  it,  Louis?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Hood  with  more  than  a  touch  of 
bitterness  in  his  low,  deep  voice.  "  He  believes  what 
Inspector  Winkle  was  at  such  pains  to  suggest — 
that  Walter  Brown  came  to  the  house  to  blackmail 
me  and  that  I  was  somehow  concerned  in  his  death. 
He  didn't  want  to  shake  hands  with  me,  Harrison — 
and  he  is  naturally  too  courteous  to  wish  to  make  it 
unmistakably  apparent.  God!"  Louis  Hood  shut 
his  teeth  upon  the  word  and  clenched  his  hands  in  a 
stern  effort  to  maintain  his  self-control.  His  thin 
face  was  very  white. 

"Oh,  damn  it  all!"  said  Harrison,  miserably,  under 
his  breath. 

"Take  me  to  my  own  house,  if  you'll  be  so  good, 
Harry,"  said  Louis  Hood,  quietly,  after  a  short 
interval  in  which  they  had  been  travelling  swiftly 
toward  Fern  Hills.  "It's  awfully  good  of  you  to 
want  to  take  me  to  your  mother's,  but  I'll  be  better 


134  Q-  E.  D- 

by  myself,  and  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  troubled 
further  by  this  wretched  business.  It's  bad  enough 
as  it  is." 

"Oh,  don't  think  of  me,  Louis,"  cried  Carlisle,  all 
the  carelessness  gone  from  his  round,  honest  face. 
"Think  of  yourself,  man.  Get  all  the  comfort  you 
can  out  of  your  friends.  It's  a  rotten  business 
altogether,  but  take  it  easy — take  it  easy.  It  isn't  so 
serious,  after  all.  They  can't  prove  anything  against 
you,  and " 

"Supposing  they  can't,"  said  Hood,  bitterly. 
"Think  of  the  scandal  in  the  papers — the  blot  on  my 
name.  Unless  I  can  clear  it,  I'll  be  a  marked  man 
all  my  life.  I  can  never 

"Look  here,  Louis."  Carlisle  slowed  down  on  the 
straight,  smooth  road  and  controlling  the  car  with 
one  practised  hand,  turned  to  face  his  friend  who  was 
on  the  rear  seat.  "You're  thinking  of  Sylvia. 
No" —  at  a  gesture  of  Hood's — "I'm  not  forgetting 
old  Red-top.  You  mustn't  mind  him.  He  can  be 
trusted  to  understand,  and  say  nothing.  But  you're 
all  wrong,  Louis,  if  you  think  your  friends  won't 
stand  by  you — especially  Sylvia  Farquhar.  She's  a 
girl  in  a  thousand " 

Hood  held  up  his  hand. 

"I  can't  talk  about  it  now,  Harry.  Please! 
You're  a  brick,  old  chap,  and  I'm  awfully  grateful, 
but  I  must  go  alone  for  the  present.  I  must  have 
time  to  think." 


"L.  H."  135 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  aren't  going  to  have  any 
professional  help?"  asked  Harrison  with  a  glance 
aside  at  Peter,  who  sat  beside  him,  lost  in  thought. 
"You  ought- 
Clancy  roused  himself  and  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment twisted  round  on  the  seat,  leaned  both  arms 
on  the  cushioned  back,  and  faced  Louis  Hood 
squarely. 

"Mr.  Hood,"  he  said,  gravely, "you  may  know,  and 
Harry  will  tell  you,  that  I've  had  some  little  ex- 
perience in  unravelling  affairs  of  this  kind.  If  you 
will  accept  my  services,  such  as  they  are — 

"Bravo,  old  Red-top!"  shouted  Harry, exultantly. 
"I  knew  you  wouldn't  stay  out  of  it!  Good  old 
scout!  I  say,  Louis,  he'll  fix  you  right  as  rain  in  no 
time." 

Unheeding  his  old  schoolfellow's  enthusiasm, 
Clancy's  attention  did  not  shift  from  the  dark,  pale, 
shadowed  face  of  Louis  Hood.  He  saw  doubt  and 
serious  trouble,  even  a  touch  of  fear,  perhaps,  in  the 
deep-set  eyes. 

"I  have  found  out  a  good  deal  already,  Mr.  Hood," 
he  said,  his  gravity  still  more  apparent.  "Hadn't 
you  better  let  me  try  to  find  out  the  rest  ? " 

They  had  reached  Fern  Hills.  The  car  sped 
swiftly  through  the  village  and  began  to  ascend  the 
hill  toward  the  heights  on  which  lay  the  great  estates 
of  its  wealthy  and  envied  inhabitants.  Still  Louis 
Hood  remained  silent. 


136  Q.  E.  D. 

"I  don't  want  to  force  my  services  upon  you," 
said  Peter  at  last,  "but  it's  a  strange  and  complicated 
case,  and  in  the  interests  of  science,  my  own  peculiar 
science — 

The  car  turned  into  the  long,  shadowy,  winding 
drive  of  the  Hood  place  and  drew  up  slowly  at  the 
east  end  of  the  fatal  terrace.  Louis  Hood  looked  up 
at  the  gray  walls  which  had  sheltered  him  and  his  for 
many  happy  years,  but  which  now  seemed  grim  and 
austere  in  the  slanting  rays  of  the  westering  sun.  A 
slight  shiver  shook  his  whole  frame.  He  gazed  ear- 
nestly into  Peter's  keen  blue  eyes,  and  then  sud- 
denly the  extreme  gravity  of  his  face  lightened  by  a 
perceptible  shade. 

"I'll  put  the  case  unreservedly  into  your  hands, 
Mr.  Clancy,"  he  said,  decisively.  "There  isn't  any 
one  that  I'd  trust  it  to  with  more  confidence."  He 
lifted  his  head,  folded  his  arms,  and  added,  crisplv: 
"Go  to  it!" 


CHAPTER  XI 
WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN? 

shrouded  empty  rooms  were  very  still. 
The  footsteps  of  the  two  men  echoed  on  the  bare 
parquetry  of  the  hall  as  Louis  Hood  led  Clancy 
through  it  to  a  large  library  which  was  situated  on 
the  right  at  the  back  of  the  main  house.  Some  effort 
had  been  made  to  render  this  room  more  habitable. 
The  covers  had  been  removed  from  the  furniture  and 
pictures,  and  a  fire  was  laid  ready  on  the  broad  hearth. 
The  two  men  were  alone,  Carlisle  having  taken 
himself  off  at  once  as  soon  as  he  was  satisfied  that 
Louis's  affairs  were  in  the  best  of  hands.  Any 
intrusion  in  his  friend's  difficulties  was  farthest  from 
his  chivalrous  mind,  but  he  said  "good-bye "a  little 
wistfully,  nevertheless,  for  his  interest  and  natural 
curiosity  were  strained  almost  to  the  breaking  point. 
It  was,  however,  with  a  comparatively  light  heart 
that  he  left  them,  so  convinced  was  he  of  Peter 
Clancy's  unerring  skill. 

"May  I  offer  you  anything,  Mr.  Clancy?" 
Louis  Hood  had  lighted  the  fire  and  now  turned 
from  it   to  attend,  with  instinctive  hospitality,  to 
other  possible  wants  of  this  unexpected  guest. 

137 


i38  Q.  E.  D. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Peter,  quickly.  "I'll  smoke 
if  I  may.  And  now  let's  get  down  to  business,  Mr. 
Hood."  He  spoke  rapidly,  but  with  an  innate 
courtesy  which  robbed  his  words  of  any  hint  of 
brusqueness. 

"  First  of  all,"  he  went  on,  "  I  want  to  know  all  you 
can  tell  me  about  Walter  Brown.  His  real  name — 
Hood  looked  up  swiftly,  and  Peter  held  up  his  hand 
with  an  arresting  gesture.  "I'm  perfectly  sure 
Walter  Brown  wasn't  the  man's  real  name,  Mr. 
Hood.  It's  no  use  to  deny  it.  I  thought  for  a  little 
while  this  morning  that  I  might  have  been  mistaken 
in  believing  that  'Walter  Brown*  was  an  alias,  but 
now  I'm  convinced  that  it  was.  If  I'm  to  be  of  any 
service  to  the  cause  of  justice" — (he  spoke  earnestly 
and  Louis  Hood  failed  to  note  that  he  did  not  say 
"of  service  to  you"  but  "to  the  cause  of  justice") — 
"you  must  be  perfectly  frank  with  me.  I  assure  you 
that  I  am  discreet,  and  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that 
I  should  know  who  Walter  Brown  was — what  con- 
nection you  had  with  him — why  you  didn't  want 
any  one  to  know  who  he  really  was — why  you  gave  him 

a  check  for  so  large  an  amount "  Peter  paused  an 

instant  and  added,  a  trifle  sternly — "And  why  you 
were  trying  to  take  that  check  from  the  body  when  I 
stopped  you." 

Hood's  tall  figure  straightened  suddenly.  He  had 
remained  standing  in  front  of  the  fire  warming  his 
long,  slender,  supple  hands.  Now  he  clenched  them 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?        139 

tightly,  looked  earnestly  at  Peter  for  a  long  moment, 
and  then  began  walking  back  and  forth  across  the 
room.  There  was  a  lithe  strength  in  the  man,  a 
feeling  of  tremendous  forces  held  relentlessly  in  leash 
which  gave  a  curious  effect  of  incongruity  to  his  quiet 
voice. 

"So — you  knew,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Well,  Mr. 
Clancy,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  can.  For  the  present 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  allow  me  to  withhold  my 
poor  friend's  name.  I  cannot  see  that  the  knowledge 
of  that  could  be  of  the  slightest  service  to  you.  If 
you  feel  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  at  any  future 
time,  and  can  convince  me  of  it,  I'll  engage  to  tell 
you.  It's  sufficient  now,  I  think,  that  you  should 
know  that — we'll  call  him  Walter  Brown — was  the 
brother  of  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine.  Walter  and  I 
were  pals  when  we  were  boys,  and  saw  a  great  deal  of 
each  other.  He  was  a  favourite  with  my  mother, 
and  visited  us  here  the  first  summer  after  we  bought 
this  place.  The  Carlisles  were  abroad  that  year,  so 
that  Harrison  did  not  recognize  him,  perhaps  had 
never  seen  him  at  all — I  don't  know." 

He  paced  the  length  of  the  room  and  back  before 
he  spoke  again.  His  words  were  so  deliberate  as  to 
suggest  to  Peter's  mind  the  possibility  that  the  story 
he  was  telling  might  not  be  perfectly  true;  that  he 
might  be  making  it  up  as  he  went  along,  or  suppress- 
ing facts,  perhaps.  He  did  not  know  Louis  Hood 
intimately,  and  so  far  had  been  prepossessed  in  his 


i4o  Q.  E.  D. 

favour,  but  Clancy  was  too  wary  to  be  immediately 
convinced  by  appearances.  He  merely  made  a 
mental  note  of  this  possibility  and  awaited  develop- 
ments. 

"Walter  was  a  jolly,  adventurous  sort  of  kid," 
Hood  went  on,  still  pacing  restlessly  back  and  forth, 
"but  he  grew  wilder  as  he  grew  older,  and  after  he 
came  of  age  and  received  his  inheritance  he  began 
to  go  the  pace  pretty  thoroughly.  He  ran  through 
most  of  his  money,  though  it  was  a  large  fortune,  in 
an  astonishingly  short  time  and  then  suddenly  he  dis- 
appeared. I  heard  from  him  several  times  afterward, 
from  California,  from  Hawaii,  from  Japan.  .  . 
I  think  he  stayed  in  Japan  for  some  little  time,  but  he 
got  into  some  kind  of  a  scrape  with  the  natives,  I 
don't  know  exactly  what.  I  only  know  he  left  sud- 
denly and  came  back  to  the  Pacific  coast." 

Again  Hood  paused,  though  Peter  didn't  interrupt 
him  by  so  much  as  a  word.  In  a  moment  he  re- 
sumed : 

"It  was  in  San  Francisco  that  he  got  into  serious 
trouble.  I  don't  know  the  details — some  shooting 
affair — and  the  man  died.  Walter  was  tried,  under 
the  assumed  name  of  Brown,  and  was  sentenced  to 
ten  years.  .  .  .  He  wrote  a  despairing  letter  to 
me  and  asked  me  to  keep  it  from  his — his  family. 
I  did  so  and  his — I  mean  the  family  came  to  believe 
that  he  was  dead.  .  .  .  The  poor  fellow's 
sentence  was  commuted  for  good  conduct  and  he  was 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN  ?        141 

released  last  week.  He  came  straight  to  me  for 
help — came  here,  not  knowing  that  I  was  not  living 
here  at  present.  Fortunately — or  unfortunately"— 
he  corrected  himself  bitterly — "I  was  coming  here 
last  night,  and  proposed  that  he  should  wait  for 
me.  .  .  .  You  heard  me  tell  the  police  inspector 
what  happened  after  he  came,  so  I  needn't  go  over 
that  again,  unless " 

"No,"  said  Peter,  quietly,  "  I  remember  all  that  you 
told  Winkle  last  night — about  the  attempted  suicide 
in  the  housekeeper's  room  and  your  thinking  that  a 
reason  for  believing  that  he  did  finally  kill  himself. 
That's  all  clear.  And  I  understand,  if  the  man  had 
been  in  the  pen  and  his  family  weren't  wise  to  the 
fact,  that  you'd  do  a  lot  to  keep  them  from  learning 
who  he  was,  especially  if  you  were  very  close  friends. 
But  why  did  you  try  to  get  your  check  back?  It 
was  a  crazy  thing  to  do  with  three  men  standing  so 
near." 

Hood  pushed  his  long  fingers  through  his  thick 
dark  hair. 

"I  suppose  it  was  insane,"  he  said,  wearily,  "but  it 
was  all  so  sudden  and  I  could  only  think — I  only  felt 
how  necessary  it  was,  for — for  the  sake  of  his  family — 
that  no  one  should  guess  who  he  was,  and  for  an 
instant  I  had  a  wild  idea  of  denying  that  I  knew 
anything  about  him.  It  wasn't  feasible,  and  I'm 
glad,  now,  that  you  stopped  me,  Mr.  Clancy.  But 
I  still  intend  to  conceal  his  identity  if  it's  a  possible 


142  Q.  E.  D. 

thing."  He  lifted  his  head  and  spoke  with  a  sudden 
fervour. 

"I  sincerely  hope  it  will  be  possible,  Mr.  Hood," 
said  Peter,  "for  your  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  all  your 
friends."  After  a  moment  he  added:  "The  suggestion 
at  the  inquest  that  it  might  have  been  a  case  of 
blackmail  took  you  quite  by  surprise  then  ? " 

"No,"  Hood  hesitated,  "I  can't  quite  say  that  it 
did.  Something  in  the  inspector's  manner  last  night 
brought  the  possibility  to  my  notice." 

"Well,"  said  Peter  after  a  slightly  longer  pause, 
"let's  leave  that  for  the  present.  I'd  like  you  to  tell 

me "  He  broke  off  suddenly  and  started  from  his 

chair.  "There's  someone  moving  in  the  bushes  down 
there,"  he  said,  softly,  pointing  through  the  win- 
dow. "Just  stand  a  little  this  way,  out  of  sight,  and 
see  if  you  can  tell  who  it  is.  He'll  come  out  into 
the  open  in  a  minute.  There!  Did  you  get  him? 
Right  beyond  the  trunk  of  that  big  tree." 

"It's  no  one  I  know,"  said  Hood  in  a  low,  tense 
voice,  "why  should " 

"Inspector  Winkle  on  the  job,"  said  Peter,  tersely. 
"That  man  sneaking  up  through  the  bushes  is  what 
we  call  a  fly-cop,  a  police  detective.  It  sticks  out  all 
over  him.  Winkle's  going  to  earn  his  pay,  and  get 
lots  of  glory,  is  he?  Well,  well,  we'll  see.  Don't 
let  it  annoy  you  if  you  can  help  it,  Mr.  Hood.  It's 
part  of  his  game.  He'll  play  it  in  his  way,  and  I'll 
play  it  in  mine,  and  we'll  see  who  goes  to  the  mat 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?         143 

first.  Only  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  any  one  getting 
wise  to  my  being  in  it  just  now."  In  his  excitement 
Peter  relapsed  into  the  vernacular  which  he  had 
studied  long,  and  with  varying  success,  to  conquer. 
"Just  pull  down  the  shades,  if  you  don't  mind.  I 
don't  want  to  be  seen  here  for  the  present." 

Hood  complied  at  once.  When  he  came  back  from 
the  windows  his  face  showed  set  and  angry  in  the 
light  which  Clancy,  with  his  usual  quickness,  had 
switched  on. 

"Go  on,  ask  me  any  questions  you  like,  Mr. 
Clancy,"  said  Hood,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair. 
"You  were  about  to  say " 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  Peter  went  on  as  if  there 
had  been  no  interruption,  "to  tell  me  exactly  what 
you  did  after  you  parted  with  Brown.  I  think  you 
said  you  didn't  go  to  the  door  with  him." 

"No.  He  knew  the  house  well,  and  I  was  in  a 
hurry.  I  had  lost  track  of  the  time  and  didn't  realize 
till  then  how  late  it  was." 

"That  was  about  seven,  wasn't  it?"  said  Peter. 
"And  Harry  didn't  expect  you  till  nearly  eight.  At 
least  he  didn't  give  you  up  till  then." 

"That's  true,"  rejoined  Hood  with  no  apparent 
annoyance.  "But  I  realized  all  I  had  to  do  in  that 
time.  I  knew  where  my  tackle  was,  but  my  heavy 
fishing  things,  woollen  stockings  and  so  forth,  had  all 
been  packed  away  before  my  mother — before  my 
mother  died,  and  I  didn't  know,  except  in  a  general 


144  Q-  E.  D. 

way,  where  they  were.  You  know  how  helpless  a 
man  is  at  finding  things,  and  I'm  afraid  I'm  worse 
than  the  rest  for  I  ransacked  a  lot  of  trunks  before  I 
found  what  I  needed,  and  was  only  just  ready  when 
you  came." 

"Certainly,"  said  Peter,  with  the  air  of  being  en- 
tirely satisfied  with  the  explanation.  "I  remember 
very  well.  You  didn't  even  have  on  your  outside 
coat.  .  .  .  Now  I  want  to  get  this  perfectly 
clear.  Suppose  you  show  me  exactly  where  you 
stood  when  Brown  left,  and  where  you  went,  and  all 
the  rest.  I  just  want  to  make  sure  how  much  noise 
there  might  have  been  out  on  the  terrace  without 
your  having  heard  it." 

"You  think  there  was  a  noise,  then?"  Hood 
paused  on  the  way  to  the  hall  to  ask  the  question. 

"May  have  been.  May  not  have  been,"  said 
Peter,  succinctly.  "If  it  was  a  jiu  jitsu  trick.  .  .  .' 
Did  it  occur  to  you  that  it  might  have  been,  Mr. 
Hood?"  Peter's  glance  was  as  sharp  as  a  sword,  but 
it  was  withdrawn  so  swiftly  that  Louis  Hood  did  not 
perceive  it.  "Harry's  man  Hoki  is  an  expert  at 
jiu  jitsu,  I  understand.  It  put  it  into  my  mind. 
You  know  the  trick,  the  chap  who  pulls  it  gets  the 
edge  of  his  forearm  against  the  other  fellow's  neck 
with  a  clinch  that  can't  be  broken.  Then  he  presses 
and  presses — till  the  victim's  neck  snaps.  The 
wound  in  Brown's  throat  might  have  been  simply  a 
blind.  Pretty  ugly  business.  Probably  no  one  but 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?          145 

a  native  Jap  could  do  it.  Brown  had  some  trouble 
in  Japan,  I  think  you  said.  If  it  was  serious — 

"But  nobody  knew  he  was  here,"  said  Hood, 
quickly.  "He  had  told  no  one  that  he  was  coming. 
I  don't  fancy  any  one  followed  him  all  the  way  from 
the  prison  in  California." 

"No,"  said  Peter,  thoughtfully,  "I  don't  fancy  any 
one  did."  And  then  more  slowly:  "No  one  knew  he 
was  here,  and  yet  someone  murdered  him  and  left 
no  footprints  in  the  snow.  .  .  .  Well,  all  facts  '11 
fit  when  we  get  the  right  start,  you  can  bet  on  that. 
Now  let's  see.  You  were  standing  about  here?" 

They  had  passed  into  the  rear  end  of  the  main  hall, 
and  Peter  stepped  over  to  the  baize-covered  door 
which  shut  off  the  servants'  wing. 

"Yes,"  said  Hood.  "Just  there.  Walter  seemed 
quite  cheered  up  when  he  left  me,  and  he  looked  back 
and  smiled  at  me  as  he  opened  the  door.  As  soon  as 
he  closed  it  I  switched  off  the  lights  from  this  button 
here,"  he  indicated  a  switch  plate  beside  the  door, 
"and  went  up  to  the  store-room  by  the  back  stairs. 
If  you'll  follow  me,  I'll  show  you." 

He  led  the  way  through  the  short  passage,  which 
they  had  traversed  on  the  previous  night,  and  up 
some  stairs  which  started  by  the  door  of  the  house- 
keeper's room.  They  went  down  a  long  hall  on  the 
second  floor  and  up  another  flight  of  stairs,  and  at 
length  found  themselves  in  a  big  trunk  room  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  house. 


146  Q.  E.  D. 

"Well,  there  sure  could  have  been  one  devil  of  a 
row  out  in  front  without  your  having  heard  anything 
from  here,"  said  Peter,  swiftly  noting  the  disorder 
of  the  room.  Several  trunks  stood  open,  and  their 
contents  had  been  tossed  about  in  a  manner  plainly 
indicating  that  they  had  been  hurriedly  searched 
through  by  their  owner.  No  servant  would  have 
dared  to  leave  them  in  that  condition,  Peter  decided. 
He  expressed  himself  quite  satisfied  by  what  he  had 
seen  and  they  returned  at  once  to  the  library. 

The  fire  had  died  down  to  glowing  embers,  and 
Hood  shivered  as  he  rang  for  more  wood. 

The  bell  was  answered  at  once  by  an  elderly  man 
in  the  semi-dress  livery  of  a  servant  whose  duties  were 
still  in  a  transitional  state.  He  wore  dark  trousers 
and  a  striped  waistcoat,  but  the  black  tail-coat  of  the 
conventional  butler  was  replaced  by  a  loose  alpaca 
house  coat. 

"Will  you  bring  in  some  more  wood,  John?"  said 
Louis  Hood  in  a  kindly  voice.  "The  house  seems 
very  chilly,"  and  he  shivered  again,  stooping  low  over 
the  embers. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  promptly,  glancing  aside 
at  Peter  with  a  quick  look  of  inquiry.  Evidently, 
he  had  supposed  his  master  to  be  alone. 

Peter's  eye  took  in  swiftly  the  peculiarities  of  the 
man's  appearance,  his  short  stature,  loose-jointed 
limbs,  the  long  gorilla-like  arms  hanging  well  forward, 
the  bald  head  rimmed  with  smooth  gray  hair,  carried 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?         147 

low  on  the  slightly  stooping  shoulders;  the  heavy 
face  with  its  long  upper  lip  and  chin  like  a  spade,  its 
short  jutting  nose  and  its  little,  quick  eyes,  which, 
somehow,  gave  an  expression  of  unrest  to  an  other- 
wise stolid  countenance. 

The  minute  Peter  laid  eyes  on  him  he  received  a 
strong  though  undefined  impression  that  there  was 
something  wrong  with  the  man,  but  he  forebore  to 
question  him  until  he  returned  from  the  back  of  the 
house  with  his  arms  full  of  wood. 

As  the  man  stooped  over  to  replenish  the  fire, 
Peter  remarked  in  a  friendly,  conversational  tone, 
"Pretty  cold  weather  we're  having  for  this  time  of 
the  year,  isn't  it?  You  must  have  had  a  hard  winter 
out  here  in  the  country?" 

The  servant  acquiesced  politely  as  he  laid  the 
sticks  upon  the  dying  embers. 

"You  must  have  been  glad  of  a  holiday  yesterday," 
Peter  went  on.  "Your  daughter's  acting  in  the 
'Wishing  Stile'  they  tell  me.  That's  quite  a  show, 
I'll  tell  the  world.  I  saw  it  last  week.  Was  that  the 
first  time  you'd  seen  it?" 

If  John  thought  that  this  stranger's  interest  in  him 
was  unusual,  he  made  no  sign. 

"Yes,  sor.  It  was,"  he  answered,  in  the  restrained 
manner  of  a  well-trained  servant. 

Clancy's  intention  of  drawing  the  old  man  out  was 
plain  to  Louis  Hood,  though  the  reason  for  it  was  not 
quite  so  obvious. 


148  Q.  E.  D. 

Peter  continued: 

"I  suppose  your  daughter  sent  you  passes."  He 
merely  made  the  remark  with  no  ulterior  purpose, 
and  was  surprised  at  the  puzzled  look  which  crossed 
the  old  man's  face. 

"Why,  no,  sor,"  he  said,  slowly  placing  the  last 
stick  on  the  fire.  "It's  a  funny  thing,  but  I  don't 
know  who  sent  the  tickets.  They  come  by  registered 
mail  first  thing  yesterday  morning.  Just  the  tickets 
by  themselves  in  an  envelope  an'  no  worrud  of  writ- 
ing. Eliza  and  me,  we  supposed  of  course  Phoebe'd 
sent  'em,  but  she  didn't.  We  saw  her  before  the 
show,  and  afterward.  She  was  all  excited  because 
she  had  to  play  Miss  Vaughn's  part  in  the  first  of  the 
piece.  Miss  Vaughn  is  understudy  I  think  they  call 
it,  for  Miss  Viola  Gale,  her  that  plays  the  principal 
part,  and  Miss  Gale  wasn't  well  enough  to  come  to 
the  theatre  for  the  first  act.  Phoebe  told  us,  but 
I  don't  think  the  audience  knew  the  difference, 
Miss  Vaughn  done  so  well.  My  girl  done  well  in 
Miss  Vaughn's  part,  too,  if  I  do  say  it,  an'  I  wish  she 

could  play  it  all  the  time "  He  paused  abruptly, 

realizing  suddenly  that  he  was  overstepping  the 
bounds  of  decorum.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sor,"  he 
addressed  himself  to  Louis  Hood.  "I " 

"It's  all  right,"  Peter  put  in,  quickly.  "I'm 
interested  in  your  daughter.  She  must  be  clever  to 
play  Miss  Vaughn's  part.  And  you  say  she  didn't 
send  you  the  tickets?"  He  harked  back  to  the  one 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?         149 

point  in  the  old  man's  conversation  which  really  did 
interest  him.  Someone,  it  was  plain,  someone  sent 
the  caretakers  tickets  for  the  play  which  would  be 
sure  to  interest  them  more  than  any  other.  They 
were  almost  certain  not  to  miss  the  opportunity  thus 
afforded  to  see  their  daughter  act.  "Who  would 
know?"  Peter  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  meditatively 
on  the  master  of  the  house.  And  immediately  the 
telephone  conversation  of  the  night  before  jumped 
into  his  head.  He  could  almost  hear  Hood's  voice 
saying,  "I  sent  you  the  tickets  yesterday.  For  the 
'Wishing  Stile'.  Yes." 

And  the  lady  to  whom  he  was  talking  had  evidently 
not  received  them.  Could  that  mean?  .  .  . 

Peter  brought  his  mind  back  to  the  present  with  a 
jerk.  Louis  Hood  was  speaking. 

"That's  queer,  John,"  he  was  saying,  with  a  look  of 
interest  but  no  apparent  discomposure.  "I  under- 
stood you  to  say,  over  the  'phone,  that  Phcebe'd  sent 
them.  If  she  didn't,  then  who  do  you  think  did?" 

"I  couldn't  imagine,  sor,  unless  you — as  a  surprise 
like  for  Eliza  and  me — unless  you  moight  have  sint 
'em,  sor?" 

The  upward  inflection  made  it  a  definite  question. 
Peter,  every  sense  on  the  alert,  waited  for  the  reply. 
It  came  at  once. 

"Why,  no,  John,"  Hood  said,  readily.  "It  never 
even  occurred  to  me.  It  was  very  thoughtful  of 
someone." 


iSo  Q.  E.  D. 

"Very,"  said  Clancy,  with  so  much  emphasis  as  to 
cause  Louis  Hood  to  glance  at  him  sharply.  For  a 
moment  the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes — 
a  long,  steady  look.  Then  Peter  glanced  back  to  the 
old  servant. 

"Well,  you  had  a  good  time  in  town,  I  suppose," 
he  said,  "but  it  was  too  bad  you  couldn't  have  been 
here,  too,  John.  You  missed  a  lot  of  excitement." 

The  old  man,  who  had  been  blowing  up  the  fire 
with  a  quaint,  antique  bellows,  straightened  suddenly 
and  shot  a  swift  glance  in  Peter's  direction. 

"It's  the  kind  of  excitement  I  can  be  doin'  without, 
sor,"  he  said.  Turning  again  to  the  fire  and  bending 
down  over  it  so  that  his  face  .was  concealed,  he 
muttered,  "Trouble,  black  trouble  comin'  to  the 

house An'  I  was  warned,  too,  but  I  failed  to 

heed."  .  .  . 

"What  do  you  mean — you  were  'warned'?" 
broke  in  Peter,  quickly.  "How  warned,  John?  Did 
you  see " 

"I  didn't  see  nothin',  sor,"  replied  the  man,  un- 
easily, still  busy  over  the  fire. 

"John  fancies  he  heard  something  night  before 
last,"  said  Hood,  glancing  from  the  servant's  stoop- 
ing figure  to  Clancy  and  back  again.  "He  im- 
agines he  has  a  special  family  connection  with  the 
unseen." 

"It's  no  subject  for  jest,  Mr.  Hood,"  said  the  man 
in  an  awed  voice,  turning  to  face  his  master.  "Me 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?         151 

father  heard  it  the  night  before  he  was  killed  on 
the  railroad,  and  me  mother  heard  it,  wailin'  round 
the  house  the  very  night  me  brother  Jim  died  'way 
off  in  Australia.  The  twenty-second  of  March 
it  was,  and  the  twenty-second  of  March  was  the 
night  Jim  died.  Ye  that  don't  know  can  laugh  and 
joke  about  it,  but  if  ye've  once  heard  that  banshee 
wail " 

"And  you  heard  it  night  before  last,  John?" 
Peter  questioned,  eagerly.  "Tell  me  about  it,  will 
you?  I'm  Irish,  too,  you  see,  and  I'm  not  as  skepti- 
cal as  most.  What  did  it  sound  like?  A  woman's 
voice?" 

The  eyes  which  the  old  man  turned  to  Peter  wore  a 
haunted  expression. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  fearfully.  "High  an'  shrill  like  a 
woman's,  but  not  like  any  woman's  on  this  earth. 
It  rose  and  fell  on  the  wind,  long  drawn  out,  till  you'd 
think  no  breath  could  last,  an'  then  low  and  moanin'. 
God,  sors,  'twas  a  fearsome  sound."  With  trembling 
hand  he  wiped  the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow.  "Eliza 
heard  it,  too,"  he  went  on.  "Ye  can  ask  her.  An' 
I  says  to  her  then,  'trouble,  black  trouble  will  come 
to  this  house,  Eliza,  you  mark  my  words'."  He 
paused  a  moment  and  then  added,  fatefully,  "An' 
the  trouble  come,  just  as  I  said." 

"It  was  only  the  wind  in  the  trees,  John."  Hood 
spoke  calmly  though  no  one  could  have  heard  the 
awesome  tones  of  the  old  voice  without  a  slight 


152  Q.  E.  D. 

sensation,  as  of  a  cold  finger  along  the  spine.  "  There 
was  a  high  wind  night  before  last,  and 

"There's  been  high  winds  many  nights  sence  I  been 
in  this  house,"  persisted  the  old  man,  "but  niver  such 
a  wan  as  that.  The  wind  had  a  voice  that  night,  a 
voice,  though  it  said  no  worruds,  or  none  that  I  could 
make  out." 

"Did  it  sound  all  around  the  house?"  asked  Peter, 
eagerly. 

"Yes,  all  round,  as  ye  might  say,  sor.  But  stronger 
out  there,"  he  pointed  toward  the  front  of  the  house. 
"Eliza  thought  it  was  in  the  front  rooms,  and  we 
come  as  far  as  the  big  hall  an*  listened.  But  the 
house  was  all  as  quiet  as  death.  The  wailin'  still 
wint  on,  but  'twas  outside  beyond  the  terrace,  just 

where "  He  stopped  and  spread  his  great  bony 

hand  over  his  mouth.  His  body  seemed  to  shrink 
inside  his  clothes,  and  his  eyes  were  wild. 

"Did  it  sound  near  the  terrace  or  far  away?" 
asked  Peter.  "And  could  you  be  sure  it  wasn't  a 
human  voice?  Someone  down  on  the  road,  perhaps, 
in  trouble  ? " 

Hood,  who  had  no  clue  to  what  was  in  Clancy's 
mind,  thought  the  question  an  odd  one. 

"It  was  near  the  terrace,"  asserted  the  old  servant, 
definitely,  "an'  no  human  voice  could  make  that 
sound.  There'd  not  be  breath  enough  in  any  human 
lungs  to  carry  a  wail  like  that  for  minutes  together. 
It  kep'  up  all  night,  too.  I  couldn't  sleep  fer  the 


WHO  WAS  WALTER  BROWN?         153 

sound  of  it.  Whiles  it  was  loud,  and  whiles  it  was 
low,  but  there  it  was  all  through  the  dark.  'Twas 
not  till  the  wind  died,  toward  dawn,  that  it  died,  too, 
arid  I  fell  asleep." 

''It  lasted  all  night,"  repeated  Peter,  softly,  as  if 
communing  with  his  own  thoughts,  "and  it  died  with 
the  wind.  It—  Suddenly  he  stopped.  He 

caught  his  lower  lip  between  his  thumb  and  fore- 
ringer  and  gazed  into  the  fire  with  eyes  that  saw  noth- 
ing— eyes  that  saw  nothing  but  the  glimmering  ghost 
of  an  idea,  startling  in  its  bizarre  improbability,  and 
yet—- 
With a  swift  movement  he  was  on  his  feet. 
"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute;  stay  where  you  are,  if 
you  please,  Mr.  Hood,"  he  cried,  and  dashed  out  of 
the  room,  down  the  wide  hall,  and  the  front  door 
closed  upon  him  swiftly  and  noiselessly. 

"Well,  what's  the  meaning  of  that?"  said  Louis 
Hood,  blankly.  "Has  the  man  taken  leave  of  his 
senses?" 

"Looks  like  it,  sor,"  said  John  in  amazement. 
"He  was  sittin'  here  quietly  an'" — he  shook  his 
bald  head,  as  if  the  stranger's  actions  were  too  much 
for  him,  and  at  a  nod  of  dismissal  from  the  master- 
left  the  room  muttering  to  himself. 

Hood  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth  across  the 
room.  So  unaccountable  did  Clancy's  actions  seem 
to  him  that  he  was  about  to  disregard  the  injunction 
to  stay  where  he  was  and  had  already  crossed  to  the 


i54  Q-  E.  D. 

hall  door,  when  Peter  returned,  out  of  breath,  but 
with  a  light  in  his  eyes  which  it  was  beyond  his  pow- 
ers to  conceal. 

When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  tone  which  Louis  Hood 
had  never  heard  him  use  before.  The  words  came 
crisply,  and  with  decision:  "I'm  going  into  town  at 
once,  Mr.  Hood,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  a  minute  to 
lose  and  I  can't  stop  to  explain.  Will  you  please 
'phone  Harry  to  bring  his  car  over?  You  haven't  a 
car  here?  No.  I  thought  not.  Ask  him  to  drive 
over  and  meet  me  on  the  road  to  Lounsberry  in  ten 
minutes—  Yes,  yes  I  know"-  -  as  Hood  tried  to 
put  in  a  word — "Fern  Hills  is  nearer,  but  I 
happen  to  know  there's  a  train  on  the  branch  line 
that  will  be  quicker  for  me.  Tell  him  to  pick  me  up 
at  the  end  of  the  short  cut  where  we  were  fishing  this 
morning.  He'll  understand.  If  I'm  not  at  the 
junction  of  the  roads  tell  him  to  drive  on,  hell  bent  for 
election.  I'll  be  ahead  of  him,  understand  ?  Got  it 
straight?  Don't  make  any  mistake.  There's  no 
time  to  be  lost.  At  the  junction  of  the  roads  where 
we  were  this  morning,  or  he's  to  follow  on  through  on 
the  straight  road  to  Lounsberry." 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply  from  his  astonished 
client,  Peter  darted  from  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XII 
"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL" 

TI^HAT  in  hell  is  up,  old  Red-top?"  cried  Harri- 
*  *     son  Carlisle,  as  his  swiftly  moving  car  slowed 
down  alongside  the  only  less  swiftly  moving  figure 
of  Peter  Clancy  on  the  Lounsberry  road. 

"Don't  stop,"  cried  Peter,  breathlessly,  jumping  to 
the  running  board.  "Drive  on  as  if  the  devil  was 
chasing  you.  I've  got  to  catch  the  6:59  train,  and 
it's  due  in  just  about  one  minute.  Step  on  the  gas, 
man,  and  let's  see  what  she  can  do.  Gee!"as  the  car 
leaped  forward,  "that's  something  like!  Knew  I 
could  depend  on  you,  Harry.  Let  her  out!  Let  her 
out!  There's  the  whistle  now!  Good  boy!  We'll 
make  it  yet.  I  told  you  so!  So  long,  old  man!  See 
you  to-morrow.  .  .  ." 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  as  Clancy  leaped 
from  the  car  and,  dashing  across  the  station  platform, 
swung  himself  on  the  steps  of  the  train  which  was 
already  in  motion.  He  paused  outside  the  door  and 
waved  a  good-bye  to  his  mystified  friend.  Then, 
as  the  train  swept  around  a  curve,  he  entered  the 
coach,  and  still  breathing  heavily  from  haste  and 
excitement,  sat  down  in  the  rear  seat. 

155 


156  Q.  E.  D. 

There  were  not  many  passengers,  and  although  he 
could  not  be  sure,  since  the  train  was  already  in  when 
he  reached  the  little  station,  Peter  thought  that  no 
one  had  boarded  it  at  Lounsberry. 

Presently  the  conductor  came  through,  looking 
to  right  and  left,  and  clicking  his  ticket-punch. 

"Tickets.  Tickets,  please,"  he  said,  monotonously, 
and  came  on  without  pause. 

"No  one  on  this  coach  got  on  here,  anyway," 
thought  Peter.  "To  New  York,"  he  added,  aloud, 
meeting  the  conductor's  eye.  "  How  much  ? " 

The  conductor  stated  the  amo'unt  of  the  fare,  and 
punching  a  folded  slip  in  several  places,  deftly  slit  it 
down  the  fold,  and  prying  up  the  velvet  binding  on 
the  back  of  the  seat  in  front  slipped  one  half  under 
the  edge.  He  was  about  to  turn  away  when  Peter 
touched  his  arm. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  word  with  you  when  you're  at 
liberty,"  Peter  said,  quietly.  "It's  pretty  important. 
Could  you- 

"I'll  come  back  as  soon  as  I  go  through  the  next 
car,"  said  the  conductor,  with  a  friendly  nod.  Peter's 
open,  freckled  face  and  pleasant  smile  rarely  failed 
in  making  the  sort  of  appeal  he  desired,  and  the 
conductor,  whose  life  was  a  very  monotonous  one, 
welcomed  the  opportunity  of  a  chat  with  so  pre- 
possessing a  young  man. 

He  returned  in  a  moment  and  seated  himself  on  the 
arm  of  Peter's  seat. 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  157 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  in  a  hoarse  but  good- 
humoured  voice.  "What  can  I  do  for  you,  young 
man?" 

"Sit  in  here,"  said  Peter,  motioning  to  the  place 
beside  him.  "I've  quite  a  lot  of  questions  I  want  to 
ask  you,  and  you'll  be  more  comfortable." 

The  conductor  slid  down  on  to  the  seat  and  re- 
garded Peter  curiously. 

"All  right,  boy.  Fire  ahead.  It's  fifteen  minutes 
to  the  next  station  stop  and — 

"Is  this  your  regular  run?"  Peter  interrupted, 
eagerly.  "And  were  you  on  this  train  last  night?" 

"I  sure  was,"  answered  the  conductor,  leaning  side- 
wise  to  catch  the  low  tones  of  Peter's  voice. 

"  Did  you  notice  any  one  that  got  on  at  Lounsberry 
last  night?  A  lady,  alone,  and  well-dressed?" 
Peter  was  guessing.  He  had  little  to  guide  him  in 
the  last  description  save  for  the  fact  that  the  mysteri- 
ous woman  of  old  Bill  Brown's  story,  the  woman 
whom  he  now,  for  his  own  reasons,  so  ardently 
sought,  had  undoubtedly  worn  shoes  of  elegant  and 
sophisticated  cut.  That  his  guess  was  near  the 
mark  was  immediately  shown  by  the  expression  of 
the  conductor's  face. 

"You  mean  the  lady  in  the  funny  veil?"  he  asked 
with  interest. 

Peter  nodded.  WThat  sort  of  veil  a  "funny  veil" 
was,  he  was  to  learn  later. 

"That's  the  one,"  he  said,  quickly.     "Can  you 


158  Q.  E.  D. 

describe  her?  Tell  me  all  about  her.  I  have  reason 
to  believe  it's  someone  I'm  looking  for.  Tell  me  just 
how  she  looked,  how  she  was  dressed,  and  everything 
you  can  remember." 

"I  didn't  see  her  get  on,"  said  the  conductor, 
thoughtfully.  "  I  was  up  forward  and  I  was  looking 
at  a  swell  automobile  that  drove  away  from  the 
station  just  as  we  run  in.  Aren't  many  swells  come 
over  this  way  and  I  was  wondering — 

"Did  you  see  the  car  plainly?"  asked  Peter,  im- 
petuously. "Or  the  person  who  drove  it?  Was 
there  more  than  one— — 

"Now  listen,  kid.  The  lights  are  dim  to  that 
station,  and  you  can  see  for  yourself  it  was  dark  this 
time  last  night.  Besides,  the  car  was  gone  before  you 
could  say  'Jack  Robinson'.  I  just  made  out  that  it 
was  a  big,  long,  handsome-looking  car  with  a  coupe  or 
sedan  body  or  something  like  that — and  that  was 
all." 

Peter  with  difficulty  hid  his  disappointment. 
The  driver  of  that  mysterious  car  interested  him 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  at  that  moment; 
but  the  lady,  the  proverbial  "woman  in  the  case, " 
was  of  scarcely  less  consequence  as  he  saw  it  at  that 
time.  His  hunch  that  old  Bill  Brown's  story  would 
prove  of  importance  amounted  now  to  almost  a 
certainty.  What  relation  these  two  unknown  people 
bore  to  Louis  Hood — what  part  each  had  played  in 
the  plot  which  had  resulted  in  the  tragic  death 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL  "  1 59 

of  "Walter  Brown" — he  had  yet  to  learn,  but  he  swore 
to  himself  by  all  that  he  held  most  sacred  that  he 
would  learn  it  before  many  days  were  over. 

To  this  end  he  would  thread  the  intricate  maze 
cautiously,  warily.  Just  now  there  was  only  one  dim 
figure  in  evidence  in  the  twisted  vista,  a  woman's 
figure,  dark,  enigmatical.  To  shed  more  light  upon 
its  unexpected  presence  was  the  purpose  before  him 
now  which  sent  him  whirling  through  the  night; 
besides  perhaps  the  one  person  available  who  could 
give  him  information. 

"All  right,"  said  Peter,  quickly,  in  response  to  the 
conductor's  last  statement.  "Let's  forget  the  car. 
Now  tell  me  about  the  lady." 

The  conductor  tilted  back  his  hard  blue  cap  to 
scratch  his  head. 

"Well,  now,  you're  asking  something,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  at  noticing  ladies 
as  a  general  rule,  and  this  one — well,  I  think  she  was 
what  you  might  call  a  peach,  far's  one  could  see — 
But  there  wasn't  much  to  see  but  her  eyes  and  her 
hair.  They  was  sure  all  to  the  good.  She  had  to 
pay  her  fare  in,  like  you  did,  on  account  of  the  station 
being  closed,  and  I  had  a  good  look  at  her.  Her  hair 
was  something  to  look  at,  shiny  gold  and  curling  all 
out  from  under  a  little  cute-looking  hat,  and  her  eyes 
were  blue — oh,  bluer  than  any  I  ever  seen — as  blue 
as  the  blue  signal  lights  at  the  switches.  She  looked 
'em  up  at  me  when  she  asked  how  much  the  fare  was 


160  Q.  E.  D. 

to  New  York  and  for  a  minute  I  was  so  kinda  dazzled 
by  'em,  old  as  I  am,  that  I  couldn't  remember 
whether  it  was  sixty  cents  or  a  hundred  dollars," 
and  the  conductor  laughed  heartily  at  his  own 
susceptibility. 

"But  what  was  the  rest  of  her  face  like?  And 
how  was  she  dressed?"  asked  Peter,  making  mental 
note  of  the  two  items  already  furnished. 

"I  can't  tell  you  about  the  rest  of  her  face," 
answered  the  conductor,  readily,  "on  account  of  the 
veil  she  had  on  her.  I  never  seen  one  like  it  before. 
It  was  quite  thick  and  was  strung  across  from  under 
her  little  hat  so  it  just  left  her  eyes  out.  It  came 
right  across  here,"  he  drew  a  line  with  his  thick  fore- 
finger from  the  top  of  one  ear  along  his  cheek  bones 
and  across  the  bridge  of  his  prominent  nose  to  the  top 
of  the  other  ear.  "It  was  some  queer-looking  con- 
traption, but  sorta  cute,  too." 

Peter  nodded. 

"I  know  the  kind  of  veil  you  mean,"  he  said, 
quickly.  "You  see  'em  on  the  Avenue  quite  a  lot 
these  days,  especially  in  motor  cars.  It's  a  fad  a 
certain  type  of  woman  affects  to  make  her  look  as  if 
she  came  out  of  a  harem.  So  she  was  wearing  that. 

sort  of  veil,  was  she?  Hm Yes.  Well,  how 

else  was  she  dressed  ?  Plain  or  fancy  ?  Light  clothes 
or  dark?" 

"Dark  and  plain,  I  think," answered  the  conductor, 
somewhat  uncertainly.  "But  Lord,  how  do  I  know? 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  161 

I  ain't  much  up  on  women's  clothes  and  I  hardly 
noticed—  Say,"  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought, 
" maybe  Frank  could  tell  you  more." 

"Frank?" 

"Yes,  Frank  Carey,  the  brakeman.  He's  young 
and  likes  the  girls  a  whole  lot  and  he  usually  sits  in 
the  rear  car.  That  was  where  she  was  last  night. 
He's  there  now,  if— 

Peter  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "Lead  me  to  him." 

Frank  Carey  proved  to  be  a  good-looking  young 
American  boy  with  a  cheerful  bronzed  face  not 
meticulously  clean  and  a  pair  of  wide-awake  gray 
eyes.  They  found  him  at  the  very  end  of  the  train, 
lounging  in  the  seat  which  runs  lengthwise  of  the  car, 
surrounded  by  several  lanterns  and  signal  flags, 
reading  absorbedly  from  a  highly  coloured  magazine. 

He  looked  up  rather  disgustedly  when  the  con- 
ductor spoke  his  name,  and  kept  his  place  in  the 
magazine  with  a  grimy  forefinger,  but  he  was  on  the 
alert  in  an  instant  when  the  object  of  Peter's  quest 
was  explained  to  him. 

"Did  I  see  her?"  he  cried.  "Have  I  got  eyes  in 
my  head?  Good  lord!  I  should  say  I  did  see  her! 
Whew!  I  took  notice  of  her  when  she  hopped  on  the 
back  platform  at  Lounsberry.  Like  a  bird  she  was — 
so  light  and  quick.  'Beg  pardon,'  she  says.  'I  can 
get  in  this  way?'  'Sure,'  I  says,  nearly  dropping  me 
lantern.  'Surest  thing  you  know!'  And  I  opened 


1 62  Q.  E.  D. 

the  door  for  her  myself.     Gee!     She  was  a  hummer 
to  look  at  even  before  she  took  off  that  crazy  veil 
thing  that  covered  most  of  her  face." 
.     "She  did  take  it  off,  then?"   asked    Peter,   im- 
petuously. 

"Gosh,  yes!"  exclaimed  the  brakeman,  his  eyes 
dancing  at  the  recollection.  "It  was  awful  hot  in 
the  train  last  night  and  she  hadn't  been  sitting  in  that 
seat  over  there,"  he  indicated  the  rear  seat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  car,  "for  very  long  before  that 
wuzzy  stuff  she  had  all  over  her  nose  and  mouth  was 
more'n  she  could  stand.  She  looked  down  the  car  a 
couple  of  times,  and  then  she  ups  and  fiddles  around 
the  edge  of  her  hat  and  off  comes  the  veil  and,  gee!" 
Words  failed  him. 

"Tell  me!  What  was  she  like?"  cried  Peter, 
excitedly. 

"Oh,  boy!  What  was  she  like?  Like  herself  and 
nobody  else  in  God's  world!  Her  pictures  ain't  in  it 
with " 

"Her  pictures!"  Peter  caught  the  young  brake- 
man roughly  by  the  arm  and  shook  it  in  his  excite- 
ment. "Then  it's  someone  who's  well  known— 
who  has  her  pictures  in  the  paper?  Speak  up,  man! 
Who " 

Frank  Carey  was  delighted  with  the  sensation  he 
was  making.  He  grinned  at  Peter  with  one  eye  half 
closed.  Then  slowly  he  ruffled  the  pages  of  the 
lurid  magazine  be  had  been  holding  all  the  while  in 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  163 

his  hand.  He  ran  part  way  through  them,  turned 
back,  and  with  moistened  finger  separated  the  pages 
one  by  one.  At  last  he  rolled  back  the  front  part  of 
the  magazine,  and  handed  it  to  Peter  with  the  right 
page  exposed  to  view. 

Peter  gasped. 

Looking  up  at  him  was  one  of  the  best-known 
faces  on  the  "  Great  White  Way  ".  A  face  which  had 
burst  upon  the  New  York  public  with  all  the  sudden- 
ness and  glory  of  a  meteor.  A  face  of  such  tran- 
scendent beauty  that,  once  seen,  it  could  never  be 
forgotten.  Peter  did  not  need  to  read  the  lines 
under  the  portrait,  but  he  read  them  mechanically, 
nevertheless. 

Miss  Viola  Gale,  who  has  captivated  all  eyes  and  ears  and 
hearts  as  "Magnolia  Grandiflora"  in  the  "Wishing  Stile." 

Peter  stood  as  one  dazed.  Like  a  floating  thread 
of  gossamer  there  was  wafted  back  into  his  mind  the 
words  of  old  John,  the  caretaker  at  the  house  of 
Louis  Hood,  "Miss  Gale  wasn't  well  enough  to  come 
to  the  theatre  for  the  first  act."  There  was  some- 
thing, too,  about  the  understudy  playing  so  well  that 
the  audience  was  unaware  of  the  change.  But  John 
knew  because  his  daughter  was  in  the  cast. 
Strange.  .  .  . 

"Are  you  sure,"  asked  Peter,  imperatively,  glanc- 
ing up  at  the  brakeman,  "are  you  perfectly  certain 
that  it  was  Viola  Gale?" 

"D'you  think  there  are  two  girls  in  this  sufferin' 


164  Q-  E.  D. 

world  with  faces  like  that?"  the  boy  counter-ques- 
tioned, hotly.  "I  set  here  lookin'  at  her  all  the  way 
in  to  Newark,  and  you  can  bet  your  sweet  life  I  ain't 
made  any  mistake.  Besides,  I'd  just  got  this  here 
very  magazine  off  the  news  boy  and  was  looking  at 
the  pictures,  and  there  she  was.  I  set  here  and 
studied  them  both  and  they  were  as  much  alike  as  two 
peas  or  more  so.  No,  sir,  you  can't  fool  me.  It  was 
Viola  Gale  and  don't  let  that  worry  you  none." 

"Why'n't  you  tell  me,  and  let  me  have  a  peek  at 
her,  Frank?"  The  conductor's  voice  was  full  of 
disappointment. 

"Oh,  you  was  talkin'  to  an  old  lady  in  one  of  the 
forward  coaches  all  the  way  in  to  Hoboken  last 
night,  you  remember,  Bert,  and  I  didn't  like  to  ask 
you  to  come  back  and  risk  an  eye  on  a  nactress. 
Didn't  know  how  t'would  set.  Besides,  she  put  her 
veil  back  on  as  we  pulled  into  Newark,  and  there 
wasn't  so  much  to  see  then.  Oh,  gosh,  we're  almost 
there  now.  Excuse  me.  See  you  later."  And  the 
brakeman  and  conductor  went  hurriedly  off  to  their 
respective  duties. 

Peter  had  much  to  think  of  during  the  remainder  of 
the  short  journey.  He  thanked  his  friendly  in- 
formants, and  bade  them  a  cheerful  though  rather 
absent-minded  "good-night"  as  he  left  the  train  in 
Hoboken.  All  the  way  through  the  tube  he  was 
plunged  in  thought,  planning,  weighing,  and  consider- 
ing the  unexpected  information  he  had  been  so 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  165 

fortunate  as  to  secure.  That  there  could  be  any 
mistake  as  to  the  identity  of  the  strange  woman 
seemed  improbable.  In  his  own  mind  he  quite 
agreed  with  Frank  Carey,  there  could  not  be  two 
faces  in  the  world  like  that  of  Viola  Gale.  But  what 
had  induced  her  to  become  an  accomplice  in  so  hide- 
ous a  crime? 

Peter  knew  little  of  her  save  that  she  was  from  the 
West  and  had  only  appeared  in  New  York  this 
present  season.  She  had  made  an  immediate  and 
brilliant  success  of  the  musical  comedy  in  which  she 
was  starring.  A  pleasing  voice,  added  to  a  face  and 
figure  of  phenomenal  attraction,  had  taken  beauty- 
worshipping  Broadway  by  storm.  In  one  short 
season  she  had  won  her  way  to  ephemeral  fame,  and 
there  was  a  rumour  that  she  was  rehearsing  a  most 
expensive  and  spectacular  motion-picture  production 
which  would  be  the  hit  of  the  coming  year  in  that 
popular  form  of  entertainment. 

So  far  as  Peter  could  judge  she  had  fame  and 
wealth  before  her.  Why,  then,  should  she  risk  it  all? 
It  was  a  question  to  be  approached  warily,  by  every 
subtle  art  at  his  command.  Either  the  plot  had 
been  so  well  laid  that  she  had  no  fear  of  detection 
(else  why  run  the  risk  of  removing  her  veil  in  the 
train)  or — what? 

Peter  racked  his  brain  for  a  possible  solution.  Had 
it  been  of  transcendent  importance  to  her  that  "Wal- 
ter Brown"  should  be  put  out  of  the  way?  And,  if 


166  Q.  E.  D. 

so,  how  had  she  known  where  he  would  be  on  that 
fatal  night?  Had  Louis  Hood  sent  her  word?  But 

he  hadn't  known  himself Stay.  There  was  only 

Hood's  word  for  that. 

"Go  slow,  old  top,  go  slow,"  muttered  Peter  to 
himself,  "don't  let  your  reel  over-run.  Play  your 
fish  before  you  try  to  land  him — or  her,  as  the  case 
may  be.  Gad,  I  wish  I  had  a  photograph  of  Walter 
Brown  to  confront  her  with.  I  must  look  up  Inspec- 
tor Winkle  in  the  morning  and  see.  ...  In  the 
meantime,  I'll  just  look  the  ground  over — nothing 
more.  I'll  take  no  chances,  you  can  bet  your  life." 

Communing  thus  with  himself,  Peter  ran  up  the 
long  stairs  at  Thirty-third  Street.  The  "Great 
White  Way"  glittered  and  flashed  before  him  as  he 
bent  his  steps  northward.  Newsboys  were  crying  the 
late  edition  of  the  papers,  and  Peter  paused  to  buy 
several,  casting  a  hurried  eye  over  each  in  turn. 
The  news  of  the  sensational  revelations  at  the  inquest 
in  Morrisville  had  reached  the  papers  in  time  to  be 
set  forth  in  staring  headlines  across  the  front  pages. 
Louis  Hood's  prominence  in  both  social  and  political 
circles  made  the  tragic  event  of  the  preceding  night 
a  matter  of  public  interest,  and  the  accounts,  es- 
pecially in  the  papers  whose  political  interests  were 
opposed  to  his,  fairly  bristling  with  innuendo,  were 
scarcely  short  of  libellous.  Peter  remembered  grate- 
fully that  the  paper  habitually  read  in  the  Carlisle 
home  was  old-fashioned  and  conservative,  and  he 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  167 

noted  the  gist  of  the  restrained  article  in  that  journal 
with  a  feeling  of  relief.  There  was  little  there  to 
alarm  his  friends  on  behalf  of  Louis  Hood.  The 
thought  of  them,  and  of  the  virulent  attacks  in  a 
number  of  the  papers,  stirred  him  to  fresh  endeavour. 

He  threw  all  the  papers,  except  the  Planet,  which 
had  the  biggest  headlines  of  all,  into  a  rubbish  can 
at  the  corner  (for,  like  Kipling's  Elephant's  Child, 
Peter  was  very  tidy)  and  proceeded  swiftly  up 
Broadway.  He  turned  westward  on  a  cross  street 
where,  in  front  of  a  brightly  lighted  theatre,  "The 
Wishing  Stile"  wrote  itself  in  huge,  blinding-white 
electric  light,  word  by  word  across  the  blue-black 
sky. 

The  play  had  been  on  some  time  when  Peter  made 
his  way  into  the  back  of  the  darkened  house.  The 
stage  shone  like  a  jewel,  brilliant  with  light  and 
colour.  Soft  music  played  seductively,  and  a  silly 
pair  of  lovers  (or  so  they  seemed  to  Peter's  troubled 
mind)  sang  a  passionate  love  song  to  each  other,  via 
the  appreciative  audience.  Peter  waited  anxiously 
for  Miss  Gale  to  make  her  appearance.  He  had  seen 
her  before,  when  her  soul  was  probably  free  of  crime. 
He  wished  to  see  her  again,  to  note  whether  the 
events  of  last  night  had  cast  any  shadow  upon  her 
lovely,  alluring  face. 

She  came  at  last.  There  was  a  pause  in  the 
action,  a  sense  of  suspense.  The  stage  was  empty, 
and  she  came  in  alone,  so  graceful  and  delicate,  so  full 


i68  Q.  E.  D. 

of  laughter  and  the  gaiety  of  life,  so  astoundingly 
beautiful,  that  the  audience  burst  again  into  the  ap- 
plause which  greeted  her  every  entrance. 

She  acknowledged  it  with  a  little  quirking  glance 
and  a  laughing  nod,  danced  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  and  began  to  sing. 

Her  voice  was  not  at  all  extraordinary,  but  it  had  a 
happy,  care-free  ring  which  carried  the  jaded  audi- 
ence along  with  her,  and  at  the  end  the  applause  was 
as  eager  and  enthusiastic  as  even  a  gifted  prima 
donna  could  wish. 

Peter  had  hurriedly  secured  a  pair  of  opera  glasses 
on  his  entrance,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  act  he 
gazed  at  her  through  them  with  an  amazed  and 
grudging  admiration.  If  this  woman,  or  girl,  as  she 
seemed,  had  a  heavy  guilt  upon  her  soul,  thought 
Peter,  she  was  a  most  marvellous  actress,  or  else  she 
was  callous  beyond  words  to  express.  Not  a  flutter 
of  the  long  eyelashes  betrayed  her.  There  was  not  a 
hint  of  guile  or  guilt  in  her  merry,  happy  face. 

Her  apparently  light-hearted  enjoyment  of  a  world 
in  which  everything  had  been  ordered  to  her  liking 
was  most  infectious,  and  at  the  close  of  the  act  the 
curtain  calls  were  many  and  extravagantly  prolonged. 

Peter  shook  his  head  as  he  watched  her.  It  was  up 
to  him  to  be  careful  in  his  dealings  with  this  woman, 
he  considered,  and  as  soon  as  the  lights  flashed  up  all 
over  the  house,  and  the  audience  began  to  stir,  he 
sought  an  usher  and  passing  him  a  small  card  and  a 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  169 

large  coin  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear,  upon 
which  the  usher,  after  a  glance  at  the  card,  dis- 
appeared with  satisfying  alacrity. 

The  card  had  been  in  Peter's  hand  for  some  time. 
He  had  carefully  selected  it  from  a  number,  in  the 
light  of  the  lobby,  and  had  smiled  a  little  to  himself 
as  he  looked  at  it. 

"Mr.  James  Flynn"  it  read  and  below  in  smaller 
letters  "The  New  York  Meteor." 

A  number  of  scoops  had  been  provided  by  Mr. 
James  Flynn,  otherwise  Mr.  Peter  Clancy,  to  the 
regular  reporters  on  the  staff  of  the  Meteor,  and 
the  little  oblong  of  pasteboard  was  the  only  tribute 
he  had  exacted.  It  had  proved  of  service  to  him 
before  and  was  likely  to  prove  so  again. 

"Miss  Gale  will  see  you  in  her  dressing  room  as 
soon  as  she's  had  time  to  change,  sir,"  whispered  the 
usher,  breathless  from  the  haste  he  had  made. 
"She'll  be  ready  in  about  ten  minutes,  and  she 
doesn't  go  on  again  in  the  first  part  of  the  act. 
There's  quite  a  long  wait  between  this  and  the  next, 
so  you'll  have  some  little  time.  This  way,  sir." 

Peter  followed  the  usher  behind  the  scenes,  where 
the  elaborate  change  of  setting  was  going  forward,  in 
almost  monastic  silence,  which  contrasted  strangely 
with  the  stir  and  hum  of  voices  beyond  the  curtain. 

It  was  some  moments  before  they  could  find 
space  in  the  crowded  elevator  which  finally  shot  them 
up  to  the  dressing  rooms,  and  when  they  had  passed 


170  Q.  E.  D. 

along  a  narrow  hall,  redolent  with  the  smell  of  grease 
paint  and  perfumed  powder,  a  broad  gleam  of  light 
from  the  open  door  of  the  star's  dressing  room  indi- 
cated that  Miss  Gale  no  longer  desired  strict  privacy. 

His  accommodating  conductor  having  indicated 
this  open  door,  Peter  slipped  another  coin  into  his 
welcoming  palm  and,  dismissing  him,  went  quietly 
forward,  alone. 

The  hall  was  comparatively  dark,  but  the  dressing 
room  of  Miss  Viola  Gale  was  rilled  with  a  dazzling 
brightness  in  which,  apparently,  no  shadow  lurked. 
Peter  paused  an  instant  in  the  doorway  and  surveyed 
the  little  scene  before  him.  His  feet  had  made  almost 
no  noise  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  passage,  and  the 
woman  within  was,  or  so  it  seemed,  unaware  of  his 
presence. 

She  was  seated  on  a  low  stool  before  a  long  dressing 
table.  At  her  feet  knelt  the  dresser,  a  lean  black 
woman,  busy  with  the  fastenings  of  a  pair  of  high- 
heeled  gold  slippers.  The  slender  figure  of  the 
actress  was  apparently  sheathed  in  molten  gold.  A 
wave  of  the  precious  metal  lay  low  across  her  breast, 
flowed  beneath  her  supple  arms,  and  the  two  sides 
melted  together  at  the  waist,  leaving  the  white  neck 
and  shoulders  bare.  How  the  costume  could  have 
been  kept  in  its  appointed  place,  unless  it  was  pasted 
on  like  wall  paper,  was  one  part  of  the  mystery  which 
Peter  never  did  unravel.  He  gave  the  dazzling 
figure,  however,  but  a  passing  glance.  His  whole 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  171 

attention  was  riveted  on  the  face  in  the  triptych 
mirror  of  the  dressing  table. 

Seen  at  close  quarters  it  was  more  than  ever 
charmingly  beautiful.  The  features  were  almost  too 
perfect,  the  colouring,  even  allowing  for  the  stage 
make-up,  was  enough  to  take  one's  breath.  The 
masses  of  waving  hair  rivalled  the  gold  of  her  gown 
(if  gown  it  could  be  called)  and  as  Peter  looked,  she 
slowly  raised  her  eyes.  Blue  eyes  they  were,  blue 
as  the  gentian  flower,  and  as  they  met  his  in  the  glass 
the  pupils  dilated  suddenly,  and  the  colour  deepened 
to  violet,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  trouble  or  fear  in 
their  steady  gaze.  What  need  was  there  for  fear? 
What  beautiful,  successful  actress  needs  to  fear  the 
eyes  of  an  admiring,  pleasant,  red-headed  reporter 
from  the  New  York  Meteor? 

Those  of  Viola  Gale  dropped  for  a  second  to  a  card 
lying  on  the  dressing  table  and  with  a  smile  she 
turned  toward  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Flynn,"  she  laughed.  "My  war 
paint's  all  on  and  I'm  ready  for  the  fray.  What's 
the  Meteor  after  now?  The  story  of  my  life?  It 
wouldn't  be  very  interesting  reading  if  I  told  the 
truth,  I'm  afraid." 

Peter  looked  down  into  her  eyes  with  a  glance  as 
merry  as  her  own. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  he 
took  a  seat  quite  close  beside  her.  "Anything 
about  you  is  good  copy  these  days.  Tell  me  some- 


172  Q.  E.  D. 

thing  about  yourself  and  you'll  just  see  what  a  good 
story  I  can  make  of  it." 

There  followed  a  quick  fire  of  light  question  and 
light  answer.  Mindful  of  his  part,  Peter  worded  his 
queries  carefully  so  as  to  gain  the  maximum  of  in- 
formation while  reducing  to  the  minimum  the  risk  of 
her  suspecting  his  ulterior  motive. 

He  found  out  little  that  he  did  not  already  know. 
It  was  true  that  she  was  rehearsing  a  large  motion 
picture  and  to  that  end  had  taken  a  quaint  old  house 
in  Fulham  so  as  to  be  near  the  celebrated  motion- 
picture  studio  in  New  Rochambeau.  She  was  work- 
ing very  hard,  she  said,  rehearsing  there  every  day 
except  matinee  days,  and  would  be  worn  out  if  it  were 
not  for  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  her  country  house. 
She  seemed  genuinely  pleased  with  that,  as  with 
everything  else,  Mr.  James  Flynn  included,  and  if 
Peter  had  really  been  what  he  appeared,  he  might 
have  been  enjoying  himself  immensely.  As  it  was, 
he  was  on  pins  and  needles,  while  the  minutes  sped 
away.  At  last  he  saw  an  opening  and  plunged  in. 

"All  this  is  very  well  in  its  way,  Miss  Gale,"  he 
said,  gaily,  "but  I  wish  we  could  get  up  something 
new  for  you.  Stage  a  fake  jewel  robbery  at  your 
country  house,  or  something.  You  haven't  worked 
that  yet,  I  know."  His  laughter  was  most  infectious. 
"Your  house  at  Fulham  sounds  like  just  the  right 
sort  of  place  to  pull  off  some  stunt  of  the  kind." 

"It    would    be,"    responded    Miss   Gale,   echoing 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  173 

Peter's  laugh.  "  But  don't  you  think  jewel  robberies 
are  a  little  stale?" 

"Yes,  they  are,"  replied  Peter,  lightly.  "If  it  was 
only  possible  to  fake  up  some  sort  of  gory  murder 
without  injuring  the  corpse,  we'd  have  something 
that  would  make  'em  sit  up  and  take  notice.  There's 
a  peach  of  a  murder  case  going  on  somewhere  in 
Jersey  now,  with  all  the  thrills  in  it  you  could  possibly 
wish.  Have  you  seen  it  in  the  papers?" 

As  he  spoke  he  swiftly  unfolded  the  copy  of  the 
Planet  which  had  been  in  his  hand  all  the  while,  and 
laid  it,  staring  headlines  upward,  across  her  golden 
knees. 

Peter  did  not  look  at  the  paper.  Instead,  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  face.  There  was  not  a  tremor 
that  he  could  discover.  The  "war  paint"  of  which 
she  had  spoken  so  lightly  might,  perhaps,  have  proved 
a  friend  in  need,  for  not  the  slightest  change  of  colour 
betrayed  her. 

"Oh,  that?"  she  said,  easily,  slightly  shifting  her 
position  so  that  the  paper  fell  to  the  floor.  "I  don't 
read  the  horrors  much.  They  aren't  in  my  line." 
And  indeed  she  did  not  look  as  if  they  were.  A  gay, 
pleasure-loving  woman,  still  young,  though  not  in 
her  first  youth,  with  the  incense  of  popularity  in  her 
nostrils,  was  all  that  Viola  Gale  appeared  at  that 
period  of  her  career. 

"Turn  over  to  the  sporting  page,"  she  continued 
with  an  eagerness  which  Peter  felt  might  have  been 


i74  Q-  E.  D. 

used  to  cloak  a  different  feeling.  "I've  a  good  fat 
bet  up  on  Rainbow  for  to-morrow's  race.  I  want  to 
see  what  he's  done  to-day.  I  do  hope — 

The  sound  of  many  daintily  shod  feet  passing  along 
the  hall  outside  interrupted  her.  Bells  buzzed  in 
several  near-by  dressing  rooms.  A  new  light  came 
into  the  dazzling  blue  eyes  of  Viola  Gale. 

"Never  mind  it  now,  Mr.  Flynn,"she  cried,  hastily. 
"The  curtain's  going  up,  andv  I  haven't  much  time 
left.  Make  up  any  pretty  story  you  like  about  me, 
and  I  won't  kick  if  it  isn't  true,  if  you  make  it  pretty 
enough." 

"Shall  I  tell  'em  you  were  too  ill  to  play  last  night, 
and  that  Miss  Vaughn  was  Magnolia  for  the  first 
act,  and  that  she  did  so  well  nobody  got  wise?" 
asked  Peter,  smiling  at  her  with  mischief  (serious 
mischief,  though  this  was  not  apparent)  in  his  eyes. 

Miss  Gale  glanced  at  him  sharply.  For  the  first 
time  her  beautiful  face  showed  traces  of  emotion. 

"No,"  she  said,  quickly  and  with  emphasis. 
"Cecelia  Vaughn  can  wait  for  her  advertising  till 
she  earns  it.  I've  worked  for  years  out  in  Frisco  and 
never  got  my  chance  till  this  season.  I  didn't  have 
any  rich  backers  to  push  me  along  like  she  has. 
Don't  say  anything  about  last  night,  Mr.  Flynn.  I 
was  a  fool  to " 

Peter  was  sure  she  caught  back  the  rest  of  the 
sentence,  though  apparently  she  interrupted  herself 
to  give  some  direction  to  the  dresser  who  had  been 


"THE  LADY  WITH  THE  FUNNY  VEIL"  175 

going  quietly  about  the  little  gay  room,  putting  it  in 
order. 

Peter  would  have  given  much  to  hear  the  end  of 
that  sentence;  would  have  given  still  more  to  fathom 
the  depths  which  he  felt  must  lurk  behind  those 
wonderful  eyes,  shallow  though  they  seemed.  He 
longed  to  question  her  sharply,  imperatively,  but  the 
time  was  not  yet  ripe.  He  must  run  no  risk  of 
putting  her  on  her  guard.  And  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity left,  for  Miss  Gale  received  her  summons  to 
the  stage  almost  immediately  thereafter,  and  when 
the  elevator  had  dropped  them  to  the  wings  she  bade 
"Mr.  Flynn"  a  hurried  but  friendly  good-night. 

"Don't  say  anything  about  my  being  ill  yester- 
day," she  whispered,  with  finger  upraised.  "Re- 
member, I  won't  see  you  again  if  you  do!"  She 
was  laughing  but  there  was  a  note  of  serious  intent 
in  her  voice.  "  I  trust  you  Mr.  Flynn, "  and  she  gave 
him  the  full  benefit  of  her  glorious  eyes. 

A  moment  later  a  wild  burst  of  applause  announced 
the  fact  that  Viola  Gale  was  still  playing  her  part 
before  an  enthusiastic  audience. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
INSPECTOR   WINKLE    PROPOUNDS   A  NEW  THEORY 

AND  I  think  that's  about  all,  O'Malley,"  said 
Peter  Clancy,  in  proper  person. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Saturday,  April  second,  and 
the  murder  of  "Walter  Brown"  was  not  yet  two 
days  old.  It  occupied  its  place  of  prominence  in  the 
pages  of  the  press  and  there  wTere  many  significant 
hints  as  to  what  the  police  had  found  out  and  were, 
for  the  present,  keeping  to  themselves. 

"All  bunk,"  said  Peter,  tapping  the  open  paper 
which  lay  on  the  desk  before  his  partner,  Captain 
O'Malley,  late  of  the  New  York  police  but  now 
pursuing  the  career  of  private  detective  in  collabo- 
ration with  his  young  and  talented  friend.  "Don't 
believe  they  know  anything  we  aren't  wise  to,  nor  a 
lot  that  we  are.  I'll  see  Winkle  this  morning  and 
find  out  what  they've  got.  Have  to  make  up  to  him 
and  get  a  photo  of  the  body  if  I  can.  You  get  the 
dope  on  every  person  on  that  list,  and  keep  tabs  on 
the  ones  I've  marked,  old  man.  I'll  call  you  up  as 
usual." 

In  pursuance  of  his  plan  Peter  Clancy  found  him- 
self some  little  time  later  at  the  police  station  in 

176 


WINKLE  PROPOUNDS  A  THEORY  177 

Morrisville,  sitting  comfortably  in  a  chair  in  In- 
spector Winkle's  private  office.  The  chair  was 
tilted  back  and  the  feet  of  Mr.  Clancy  rested  on 
Inspector  Winkle's  desk.  Apparently  all  the  leisure 
in  the  world  was  his,  and  all  his  idle  thoughts  were 
centred  on  the  fishing  trip  which,  he  informed  the 
inspector,  had  been  postponed  but  not  abandoned. 
He  had  just  dropped  in  to  find  out  what  was  doing  in 
the  case  of  Walter  Brown,  while  Mr.  Carlisle  was 
running  about  making  some  purchases.  The  fact  of 
the  matter  was  that  Peter  had  telephoned  Harrison 
Carlisle  to  drive  over  to  the  police  station  for  him 
at  one  o'clock,  not  earlier,  and  he  knew  that  he  had 
plenty  of  time  for  the  task  which  he  had  set  himself. 

He  had  spent  nearly  half  an  hour  ingratiating  him- 
self with  Inspector  Winkle  and  had  achieved  such 
success  that  the  worthy  police  officer  was  so  im- 
pressed by  Peter's  admiration  of  his  attainments  and 
his  way  of  conducting  the  case  that  he  was  in  a  posi- 
tion to  be  turned  inside  out  like  an  old  glove.  This 
Peter  did,  figuratively  speaking,  finger  by  finger,  and 
found,  to  his  surprise,  for  he  had  thought  Inspector 
Winkle  a  man  of  more  intelligence,  that  the  old  offi- 
cer had  evolved  a  new  theory,  entirely  out  of  his  own 
head,  to  the  astounding  effect  that  Walter  Brown  had 
been  dropped  to  the  terrace  from  an  aeroplane. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Peter  pointed  out  the  in- 
controvertible fact  that  Walter  Brown  had  been 
inside  the  Hood  house,  and  had  only  left  it  a  few 


178  Q.  E.  D. 

minutes  before  he  was  killed;  that  Walter  Brown's 
own  footsteps  gave  incontestable  evidence  that  he 
himself  ran  to  the  spot  where  he  met  his  death;  that 
there  was  only  a  slight  contusion  on  the  head  proving 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  have  fallen  from  any 
great  height.  So  in  love  was  the  inspector  with  the 
up-to-dateness  of  his  theory  that  his  faith  in  it  re- 
mained unshaken. 

Finding  this,  Peter  cheerfully  refrained  from 
pressing  the  point.  He  hoped  that  Winkle's  change 
of  front  would  keep  the  police  and  the  newspapers 
off  the  subject  of  Louis  Hood  for  the  present,  and 
give  him  a  chance  to  prove  his  own,  quite  different 
theory. 

After  agreeing  with  the  inspector  that  strange 
things  did  happen,  and  that  in  the  present  age  very 
little  was  impossible,  he  gently  led  the  conversation 
to  the  question  of  Walter  Brown's  identity.  On  this 
the  inspector  had  no  further  inspiration  to  offer. 
He  now  rejected  Louis  Hood's  story  in  toto,  hinting 
darkly  that  Hood  had  his  own  secrets,  perhaps,  but 
that  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  death  of  Walter 
Brown,  the  presence  of  whose  dead  body  on  his  door- 
step had  aided  Hood  in  covering  a  succession  of 
circumstances  which,  for  some  occult  purpose,  un- 
explained, the  inspector  thought  Hood  wished  to 
conceal. 

Peter  could  but  marvel  at  the  proneness  of  human 
nature  to  twist  facts  to  meet  a  preconceived  pet  idea, 


WINKLE  PROPOUNDS  A  THEORY  179 

and  was  grateful  in  his  heart  to  the  training  of  his  old 
friend  O'Malley,  who  had  insisted,  at  the  outset  of 
his  career,  that  Peter  should  always  keep  an  open 
mind,  subject  to  change  without  notice,  until  every 
known  fact  fell  into  place  and  made  a  perfect  whole. 
He  would  do  it  now,  he  insisted  firmly  to  himself.  He 
would  not  pretend  to  write  Q.  E.  D.  at  the  end  of 
the  problem  until  every  proposition  in  the  whole  in- 
tricate sum  was  axiomatic  in  its  clarity. 

It  took  no  effort  on  Peter's  part  to  refrain  from 
sarcastic  comments  upon  the  pampered  child  of 
Inspector  Winkle's  brain.  The  more  lusty  the  child 
grew,  the  better  for  his  purpose.  He  contented 
himself  with  the  suggestion  that  the  newspapers 
would  give  ample  space  to  Winkle's  new  theory  and 
returned  to  his  immediate  purpose. 

"They've  asked  for  a  picture  of  the  murdered  man 
to  run  in  the  papers,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  casually. 
"I  haven't  seen  one  yet.  Have  you  had  any  photos 
taken?" 

"Sure,"  said  Winkle.  "They'll  be  out  this  eve- 
ning. No  objection  to  that.  In  fact,  it  should  have 
been  done  before,  only  I  didn't  want  to  be  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry  giving  things  out."  He  winked, 
knowingly.  "Keep  the  public  on  the  jump  and 
you'll  get  more  space  and  notoriety,  my  boy.  Just 
remember  that.  If  you  shoot  all  of  your  rockets  up 
at  one  clip,  the  show's  soon  over.  Just  you  watch 
the  papers  to-night  and  you'll  see  some  story, 


i8o  Q.  E.  D. 

believe  me,"  and  the  inspector  rubbed  his  fat  hands 
with  satisfaction. 

"To-night,"  thought  Peter.  Would  that  be  early 
enough  for  his  purpose?  He  wanted  to  catch  Miss 
Viola  Gale  before  she  left  the  theatre  after  the 
matinee  that  afternoon.  The  papers  might  be  out 
in  time,  but  a  newspaper  cut  leaves  much  to  the 
imagination  at  times.  It  would  be  better.  .  .  . 

"Let's  see  the  photograph.  Did  you  get  a  good 
one?"  said  Peter,  in  an  off-hand  manner. 

"Say,  boy,  we  got  a  corker.  Face  not  disfigured, 
you  know,  and — well  see  for  yourself;  and  the 
inspector  took  several  unmounted  prints  from  the 
drawer  of  his  desk  and  tossed  them  to  Peter. 

"Good-looking  chap,  enough,  wasn't  he?"  said 
Peter,  studying  the  face.  "Mind  if  I  take  one  of 
these  for  a  souvenir?  It's  a  little  fad  of  mine.  I've 
got  a  sort  of — what  you'd  call  a  memory  book,  I  guess. 
Kind  of  kiddish,  I  suppose,"  apologetically.  "But 
then- 

"You  aren't  much  more  than  a  kid,  are  you,  Mr. 
Peter  Clancy?"  Inspector  Winkle  laughed  from  the 
heights  of  his  superior  years  and  experience.  "Sure- 
Take  one  along  if  you  like.  Memory  book,  eh?"  he 
chuckled  to  himself.  "Some  kid,"  shaking  his  head 
and  a  considerable  portion  of  his  rotund  body,  "I'll 
tell  the  world." 

His  purpose  accomplished,  Peter  waited  somewhat 
impatiently  for  Harrison  Carlisle's  appearance. 


WINKLE  PROPOUNDS  A  THEORY  181 

Punctual  to  the  minute  he  came,  and  a  few  seconds 
later  they  were  speeding  along  the  smooth  road  to 
Fern  Hills. 

"Well,  old  top,  tell  us  the  news,"  cried  Carlisle  as 
soon  as  he  had  greeted  Peter.  "How  are  things 
going?  I  talked  to  Louis  over  the  'phone,  but  his 
replies  were  sort  of  unsatisfactory,  though  he  said 
he'd  heard  from  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter.  "I  got  him  on  the  wire  early 
this  morning,  though  there  really  isn't  much  to  re- 
port yet.  The  best  news  I've  had  I  got  here,"  and 
he  laughed  as  he  disclosed  the  wonderful  new  theory 
of  Inspector  Winkle. 

"I  thought  he  had  some  brains  last  night,"  Peter 
continued.  "It  only  goes  to  show,  as  O'Malley  says, 
that  you  never  can  tell.  Would  you  think  any 
man  could  be  such  a  fool,  in  the  face  of  all  the 
facts?" 

"But,  Peter,"  hazarded  Carlisle,  "it  does  seem 
to  me  that  Winkle's  theory  is  as  good  as  any  I  can 
imagine,  crazy  as  it  is.  When  an  impossible  thing 
happens 

"An  impossible  thing  never  happens,  Harry,"  said 
Peter,  seriously,  "you  can  bet  your  last  buck  on 
that." 

"You  have  a  theory  of  your  own  then,  Peter,"  said 
Carlisle,  eagerly  looking  into  his  friend's  face.  "A 
theory  that— 

"I    have    no    theory,    Harry."     The    gravity    of 


182  Q.  E.  D. 

Clancy's  face  deepened.  "I'm  carefully  keeping  my 
mind  clear  of  all  theories.  What  I'm  dealing  in 
is  facts.  I  don't  know  yet  who  committed  the 
crime,  but  I  know" — he  paused  and  repeated  slowly, 
emphatically — "I  know  how  the  murder  was  done." 

"Good  God!"  gasped  Carlisle.  "You  don't  mean 
that  you've  solved " 

"Only  part  of  it,  old  man,  so  keep  your  shirt  on. 
I  know  how  it  was  done,  but  I  don't  know  by  whom, 
or  why.  And  of  course  the  two  hang  together. 
Hood  says  no  one  but  himself  knew  Walter  Brown 
was  in  Fern  Hills.  Then  how  could  it  have  hap- 
pened? Someone  must  have  known,  or  else 

He  paused  again  and  seemed  plunged  so  deep  in 
thought  that  Carlisle  forebore,  with  his  usual  con- 
sideration, to  speak. 

After  a  while  Peter  roused  himself  and  spoke  again, 
changing  the  subject  abruptly. 

"How's  your  mother?"  he  asked.  "She  isn't 
worried  at  all,  is  she?" 

"Well,  there  you  are,"  answered  Carlisle,  with 
angry  impatience.  "She  wouldn't  have  been  a  bit 

if You  know  our  old  stand-by,  the  New  York 

Stick,  I  call  it,  had  a  very  good,  quiet  account  of 
what  happened  Thursday  night,  and  if  she'd  read 
only  that,  everything  would  have  been  all  right;  but, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  they  take  the  Planet  in  the 
kitchen,  and  that  fool  Hoki  (I  suppose  he  can't  read 
English)  brought  it  in  by  mistake  last  night.  Mother 


WINKLE  PROPOUNDS  A  THEORY     183 

was  awfully  upset  over  what  it  hinted  about  poor 
Louis — hinted  like  a  steam-siren,  you  might  say. 
Anyhow,  nobody  could  miss  it,  and  Mother's  no 
fool.  She  took  it  standing,  like  the  old  brick  she 
is,  but,  oh,  Peter,  I  wish  you'd  hurry  up  and  set  all 
our  minds  at  rest." 

"Too  damn  bad,"  said  Peter,  feelingly,  "but 
Winkle's  theory's  going  to  be  aired  in  all  its  airiness 
in  to-night's  papers,  and  Hood  wasn't  up  in  an 
aeroplane  that  night.  Everybody  knows  that,  so 
that  lets  him  out,  you  see."  He  laughed  and  went  on 
rather  hastily:  "Speaking  of  Hood,  who  was  that  he 
'phoned  to  Thursday  night,  after  we  got  over  to  your 
house,  do  you  know?  A  lady,  wasn't  it?  I  thought 
I  heard ' 

"Yes,  so  did  I.  It  was  Sylvia  Farquhar.  He's 
been  in  love  with  her  like  most  of  the  rest  of  us," 
Carlisle  smiled  a  trifle  sadly,  "ever  since  she  was  a 
kid.  He  and  Robert  Kent  and— 

"Robert  Kent?"  interjected  Peter  with  a  slight  lift 
of  the  brows.  "I  rather  thought — 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Harrison,  musingly,  "Robert,  too. 
We're  all  crazy  about  Sylvia,  and  you  wouldn't  won- 
der if  you  could  see  her.  She's  so  beautiful,  so 
gracious,  so  kind  to  everybody,  that  it's  impossible 

to  guess But  I  think,  myself,  that  Louis  will  be 

the  winner  in  the  long  run.  He  has  the  start  of  us  all. 
He's  known  her  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  They 
both  lived  in  Philadelphia  then.  I  didn't  know  her 


184  Q.  E.  D. 

till  they  moved  to  New  York,  and  I  don't  think  Kent 
did,  either.  He's  a  distant  cousin  of  Louis's,  you 
know,  and  they've  been  sort  of  rivals  in  this  as  in 
most  things.  But  I'm  putting  all  my  money  on 
Louis.  He  beat  us  all  at  college,  and  he's  made  some- 
thing of  himself  since,  which  is  more  than  I  can  say. 
I  can't,  somehow,  get  really  interested  in  anything 
but  sport,"  regretfully;  "even  Robert  works  harder 
than  I  ever  thought  of  doing.  He  has  a  lot  of  things 
he's  interested  in,  though  I  don't  think  he  sticks  to 
anything  much  more  seriously  than  I  do.  He  got 
me  interested  in  a  real-estate  scheme  the  summer  he 
spent  out  here.  It  was  one  of  the  years  Louis  and 
his  mother  were  abroad,  and  Rob  had  Louis's  house 
for  the  season — or  rather  his  sister,  Mrs.  Fayle,  took 
it,  and  Rob  was  with  her  most  of  the  summer.  The 
thing  looked  promising,  the  real-estate  scheme,  I 
mean,  but  it  fell  through  and  we  both  lost  a  lot  of 
money — though  I  don't  regret  it,  for  it  gave  me  some- 
thing to  think  of  besides  Sylvia."  He  spoke  the 
girl's  name  with  a  tenderness  and  regret  that  was 
infinitely  touching. 

"Tell  me  something  more  about  her,"  said  Peter, 
after  a  short  silence  in  which  his  friend's  face  had 
remained  sadly  thoughtful.  "Is  it  Miss  or  Mrs. 
Farquhar?" 

"Why,  'Miss,'  of  course,"  answered  Harrison,  in 
surprise.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Peter,  medita- 


WINKLE  PROPOUNDS  A  THEORY     185 

tively,  "I  had  a  sort  of  idea — I  don't  know  where  I 
got  it — that  she  might  have  been  married,  and  that 
it  hadn't  turned  out  well.  You're  sure  she  couldn't 
have  been — secretly,  perhaps?" 

Harry  Carlisle  shook  his  head  in  complete  denial. 

"Where  you  ever  got  such  a  crazy  idea  I  can't 
imagine,  Peter.  But  there's  nothing  in  it.  I've 
known  her  very  well  for  years  and  there's  never  been 
the  slightest  suggestion " 

"You're  sure?"  persisted  Peter,  with  his  eyebrows 
drawn  together  in  concentrated  thought.  "You're 
certain  there  was  no  such  thing  as  an  unfortunate 
marriage — a  husband  who  disappeared  and  was  sup- 
posed to  be  dead " 

"Heavens,  no,  Peter!  What  on  earth  put  such  a 
thing  into  your  head  ?  Why,  her  whole  life  has  been 
as  open  as  the  day,"  said  Carlisle,  warmly.  "No  hint 
of  scandal  has  ever  touched  Sylvia  Farquhar.  You 
can  be  sure  of  that." 

Peter's  mind  had  been  intensely  active,  reviewing 
a  quite  possible,  though  somewhat  romantic  con- 
junction of  circumstances,  involving  a  possible  mo- 
tive for  the  crime  in  which  his  every  faculty  was 
absorbed.  The  unexpected  return  of  a  lover  or 
husband,  supposed  to  be  dead,  just  at  the  moment 
when  Louis  Hood's  success  with  the  object  of  his 
affections  was  almost  in  sight,  would,  if  found  to  be 
true,  present  an  adequate  motive.  ...  In  the 
face  of  Harry's  better  knowledge,  however,  this 


i86  Q.  E.  D. 

seemed  untenable.  Peter  abandoned  it  for  the 
moment  though  it  still  lurked  in  the  background  of 
his  mind. 

"All  right,  Harry,  I'm  a  nut,"  said  Peter,  easily. 
"I'll  admit  I  get  crazy  ideas  once  in  a  while.  But 
I'm  interested  in  Miss  Farquhar.  Tell  me  something 
more  about  her.  Who  is  she?  Has  she  any  family? 
I  just  sort  of  thought — well,  put  it  down  to  curi- 
osity." 

"I  don't  quite  see  what  you're  after,  Peter,"  said 
Carlisle,  puzzled.  "But  of  course  I'd  just  as  soon 
tell  you  about  her.  She's  an  orphan,  and  lives  all 
alone.  Her  father  and  mother  died  years  ago  and 
left  her  and  her  brother  very  well  off." 

"She  had  a  brother,  then,"  said  Peter,  carelessly, 
though  he  felt  his  ears  pricking  up.  "Is  he  dead, 
too?" 

"I  don't  know,  Peter.  I  think  so.  I  don't  know 
much  about  him,  except  that  I  understand  he  ran 
rather  wild  after  he  came  into  his  property.  I  didn't 
know  Sylvia  then,  myself,  but  Louis  did.  He  could 
tell  you  anything  you  want  to  know.  But  I  don't 
see " 

Peter  had  been  leaning  forward,  one  arm  resting 
on  the  side  of  the  seat,  his  gaze  fixed  on  his  friend. 
Now  he  sank  back  on  the  cushions  and  regarded  the 
road  ahead  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"No,  no,  I  don't  suppose  you  do,  old  man,"  he 
murmured,  thoughtfully,  "and  I  can't  tell  you  just 


WINKLE  PROPOUNDS  A  THEORY  187 

yet.  You'll  have  to  trust  me  if  you  can,  and  don't 
worry,"  he  added,  in  a  different  tone.  "Things  are 
dark,  but  by  gad,  they're  clearing — clearing."  He 
relapsed  into  a  silence  which  remained  unbroken 
until  they  reached  Carlisle's  home. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
AN  INTERLUDE 

CO  YOU  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  about  the 
^  papers  making  any  more  trouble  for  Mr.  Hood 
for  the  present,  Mrs.  Carlisle,"  said  Peter  Clancy, 
leaning  toward  his  hostess,  and  patting  the  plump 
old  hand  which  lay  near  him  upon  the  polished 
mahogany  of  the  table.  "As  I  told  Mr.  Hood  over 
the  'phone  just  now,  the  papers  will  be  so  occupied 
with  Inspector  Winkle's  new  theory,  not  realizing, 
perhaps,  how  absurd  it  is,  that  they'll  leave  him 
alone.  It  will  make  a  corking  story,  and,  after  all, 
that's  what  the  press  cares  most  about."  And 
he  smiled  confidently  into  the  now  hopeful  face  of  the 
old  lady. 

Peter  had  been  doing  justice  to  a  hearty  and  de- 
licious luncheon  while  he  outlined  to  Mrs.  Carlisle 
the  new  and  novel  theory  of  Inspector  Winkle  to 
which  he  had  just  referred.  The  old  lady's  bitterness 
at  the  unjust  attack  on  Louis  Hood  was  by  this  time 
somewhat  alleviated  by  Peter's  words,  and  she  ex- 
pressed her  approval  of  him  and  them  by  a  cordial, 
friendly  smile. 

"You  certainly  are  a  comfort  to  us  all,  Mr. — no, 

188 


AN  INTERLUDE  189 

no,  Peter,"  she  said,  quickly,  as  that  engaging  young 
man  shook  his  red  head  at  her.  "I  don't  know 
what  we'd  do  without  him,  do  you,  Harry?" 

"Old  Red-top  is  on  the  job,  Mother.  You  can 
depend  on  him,"  grinned  Carlisle,  serving  himself 
to  some  more  of  the  exquisitely  dressed  salad,  which 
the  inimitable  Hoki  tendered  at  his  elbow.  "Have 
some  more,  Peter,"  he  recommended,  earnestly. 
"You  won't  get  a  salad  like  this  every  day." 

Peter  helped  himself  lavishly  and  watched  the 
clever  Japanese  as  he  left  the  room.  When  the  door 
was  closed  he  returned  to  the  subject  which  occupied 
all  their  thoughts,  and  it  was  not  until  luncheon  was 
over  that  he  drew  Harrison  aside  and  spoke  to  him 
earnestly. 

"Your  mother's  awfully  pleased  with  that  butler 
of  yours,  Harry,"  he  said,  "and  I  hate  to  make  any 
trouble.  But  he's  hitting  the  pipe  on  the  quiet.  I 
know  the  signs.  It's  a  pet  vice  of  the  race,  and,  take 
it  from  me,  you'd  better  watch  him." 

He  said  no  more,  but  he  said  this  so  seriously  that 
his  words  had  the  desired  effect.  Harrison  promised 
that  he  would  keep  his  eyes  open,  and  the  young  men 
sauntered  together  into  the  living  room  where  Mrs. 
Carlisle  awaited  them. 

The  day  had  turned  unexpectedly  warm,  and  all 
the  windows  had  been  thrown  open.  The  belated 
spring  had  decided  at  last  to  bring  itself  up  to  date 
in  a  leap,  and  the  temperature  had  risen  in  less  than 


190  Q.  E.  D. 

twenty-four  hours  to  summer  heat,  as  is  the  custom 
of  our  versatile  climate.  It  seemed  scarcely  possible 
that  two  days  before  snow  had  been  lying  thick  where 
now  the  green  grass  glistened  in  the  hot  sun.  Buds 
were  swelling  on  the  boughs  where  birds  basked 
and  sang  their  song  of  newly  awakened  life  and 
joy. 

"It's  very  warm,  isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Carlisle, 
fanning  herself  as  she  sat  in  her  big  winged  chair. 
"I  always  feel  these  sudden  changes  very  much.  I 
suppose  it's  because  I'm  growing  fat — and  old." 

"You  old,  Mother!"  exclaimed  Harry,  laughing. 
"You'll  never  be  old,  dear.  Will  she,  Peter?  You 
should  see  her  after  black  bass  up  in  Maine.  She 
can  cast  sitting  in  a  boat  as  well  as  any  man  I  know, 
and  she  lands  her  fish  every  time,  no  matter  what  sort 
of  fight  he  puts  up." 

"If  she  doesn't  strike  a  lot  of  bad  leaders,  as  we  did 
yesterday,  eh,  Harry?"  laughed  Peter.  "I  don't 
think  she  really  believed  that  story,  do  you?" 

"Well,  it  did  sound  a  trifle  fishy,  I  admit,"  said 
Harry,  "but  it  was  true,  just  the  same,  Mother. 
I  tested  the  whole  lot,  even  the  ones  I  had  at  home, 
and  they're  all  rotten,  every  one.  It's  an  infernal 
shame,  too,  for  I've  just  received  a  permit  this  noon 
to  fish  at  the  Plympton  Reservoir  and  I'd  beat  it 
over  there  this  afternoon  if  I  had  any  decent  tackle." 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Carlisle,  with  a 
serious  air  of  concern  which  was  very  attractive  in  a 


AN  INTERLUDE  191 

woman  of  her  years,  "isn't  that  too  bad!  The 
reservoir  is  alive  with  trout,  I  know.  I  saw  them 
jumping  when  I  drove  over  there  with  the  Ainslees  a 
week  ago.  Isn't  there  some  way  you  could  get  good 
leaders  ?  How  about  Conger's  in  Morrisville  ?  They 
have  tackle." 

"Yes,  they  have,  confound  'em!  That's  where  I 
got  this  last  lot  of  leaders,  and  I'll  be  damned — ex- 
cuse me,  Mother — I'll  be — whatever  you  like — if  I'll 
ever  buy  another  cent's  worth  from  Conger  as  long 
as  I  live.  Why,  Peter  had  a  fish  on  yesterday  morn- 
ing " 

"Couldn't  you  get  some  from  Louis?"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Carlisle,  whose  sporting  instincts  were  thor- 
oughly aroused.  "He  must  have  tackle  out  here." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  to  bother  Louis,"  said  Harry,  giv- 
ing his  head  a  quick  jerk.  "He's  got  trouble  enough, 
and  it  would  seem  sort  of  heartless." 

"I  can't  see  what  good  you'd  be  doing  him,  staying 
at  home  a  beautiful  day  like  this,"  objected  Mrs. 
Carlisle.  The  happiness  and  pleasure  of  her  dear 
boy  took,  after  all,  the  first  place  in  her  heart.  "If 
there  were  anything  you  could  do  for  Louis " 

"There  isn't  a  thing  he  could  do,  Mrs.  Carlisle," 
said  Peter,  earnestly,  "and  he'd  be  lots  better  off  do- 
ing something  amusing.  Wish  I  could  go  along,  but 
I  can't — worse  luck.  I'll  have  to  be  in  town  bv 
four  o'clock." 

"Well,  there's  no  use  talking  about  it,  anyway," 


192  Q.  E.  D. 

said  Harry,  disconsolately.  "I  haven't  any  decent 
tackle,  so  that  settles  it." 

"Harry!"  cried  Mrs.  Carlisle,  brightening  sud- 
denly, "I  have  it!  Robert  Kent's  tackle  is  all  here. 
He's  so  perfect  he'll  be  sure  to  have  the  best  of 
everything,  and  he  couldn't  possibly  mind  your 
taking  a  few  leaders." 

"By  George,  Mother,  you  certainly  are  a  wonder!" 
exclaimed  Harry,  laughing  aloud.  "I  never  thought 
of  Rob's  stuff.  Of  course !  That's  the  very  ticket ! 
He  must  have  every  kind  of  tackle  known  to  man  in 
that  outfit  of  his.  Come  on,  Pete,  and  see  it.  It's 
something  to  make  your  mouth  water.  Even  beats 
his  clothes  for  being  the  real  thing." 

"  Is  it  so  wonderful,  Harry  ? "  said  Mrs  .  Carlisle, 
her  eyes  dancing  with  the  amusement  of  her  ever- 
youthful  spirit.  "If  it's  any  better  than  his  clothes, 
I'd  like  to  see  it." 

"Come  along  then,  old  dear.  You  have  a  treat 
before  you,"  and  Harry  led  the  way  up  the  broad 
staircase,  his  mother  following  with  a  step  surpris- 
ingly light  and  quick  for  one  of  her  age  and  build,  and 
Peter,  scarcely  less  entertained,  bringing  up  the  rear. 

The  room  which  was  still  considered  Robert  Kent's, 
for  he  was  expected  back  that  evening,  was  charming 
in  its  exquisite  neatness  and  comfort,  and  had  been 
prepared  for  his  return  even  to  a  vase  of  fresh  flowers, 
which  Hoki,  who  delighted  in  the  opportunity  for 
displaying  his  taste,  always  arranged,  and  which  he 


AN  INTERLUDE  193 

had  but  now  placed  upon  the  dressing  table.  He 
was  leaving  the  room  as  they  entered  it  and  lingered 
a  moment  in  the  hall,  listening,  perhaps,  for  their 
comments  upon  the  effect  of  the  artistically  arranged 
feathery  sprays  of  forsythia  against  the  dully  gleam- 
ing mahogany. 

If  this  was  his  purpose,  he  was  doomed  to  dis- 
appointment, for  the  minds  of  his  employers  and 
their  guest  were  centred  on  one  object  only. 

"There  are  his  rods,"  said  Harry,  pointing  to  a 
large  bundle  of  them  standing  in  the  corner  of  the 
spacious  closet  the  door  of  which  he  had  thrown 
open.  "That's  his  suitcase,  and  this  must  be  his 
tackle  outfit.  Now,  boy,  you'll  see  something  worth 
while,"  and  he  lifted  the  smaller  one  of  the  two 
leather  bags,  carried  it  out  into  the  room,  and  placed 
it  on  a  low  stool,  made  for  the  purpose,  which  stood 
beside  the  empty  fireplace.  He  knelt  beside,  it. 

Mrs.  Carlisle  was  about  to  seat  herself,  preparatory 
to  enjoying  in  full  the  examination  of  trout  flies, 
artificial  bait,  reels,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  what 
was  still  her  favourite  sport,  when  an  ejaculation  of 
disappointment  from  her  son  checked  her. 

"Oh,  dammit  all!"  cried  Harry,  sitting  back  on 
his  heels,  "the  bag  is  locked,  of  course!  Might 
have  known  it  would  be.  My  own  tackle  bag  is  the 
one  thing  in  the  house  I  do  lock  up.  Well,  I'm 
dished  for  this  afternoon,  confound  it !  I  think  I'll  go 
into  town  with  you,  Peter,  and  get  some  good  leaders 


i94  Q-  E.  D. 

at  Abersvail  and  Finche's.     They  have  a  new  kind  of 
Japanese  silk-worm  gut  that  I  want  to  try,  and 

"Harry,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Carlisle, 
folding  her  hands  across  her  ample  front,  and  looking 
down  at  him  with  superior  resourcefulness,  "you  just 
wait  a  minute  before  you  give  up.  Trust  your  old 
mother  not  to  be  stopped  by  a  mere  trifle."  And 
without  explaining  further,  she  left  the  room,  chuck- 
ling to  herself. 

She  returned  in  a  moment  jingling  an  enormous 
bunch  of  keys,  the  collection  of  a  lifetime,  in  her  hand. 

"If  you  don't  find  one  here  that  will  fit,"  she 
beamed,  "my  name's  not  Mary  Carlisle." 

"But,  Mother,"  objected  Harry,  though  it  must 
be  admitted  that  his  remonstrance  was  only  half- 
hearted, "wouldn't  you  be  at  all  ashamed  of  burglar- 
izing a  man's  locked  tackle  box?" 

"No,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Mrs.  Carlisle, 
stoutly.  "  If  it  were  anything  else,  I  wouldn't  con- 
sider it  for  an  instant.  But  this  is  a  case  of  necessity. 
You  can't  go  fishing  for  trout  without  good  leaders. 
That's  all  there  is  about  it.  I'll  explain  to  Rob, 
myself,  when  he  comes  back  to-night,"  she  added, 
with  dignity,  "and  he'll  be  sure  to  understand.  Any 
sportsman  would." 

Harrison  looked  at  his  mother  with  amused  ap- 
preciation, and  casting  a  quizzical  glance  at  Peter, 
whose  enjoyment  of  the  situation  was  only  less  ap- 
parent, he  bent  to  his  task. 


AN  INTERLUDE  195 

He  tried  a  great  number  of  the  more  promising- 
looking  keys  before  his  labours  were  rewarded. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  cried  Mrs.  Carlisle,  with 
delighted  triumph,  as  the  lock  at  last  turned  smoothly 
over.  "That  bunch  of  keys  never  fails,  except  with 
some  of  these  new-fangled  Yale  locks,  of  course.  I've 
opened  more  trunks  for  people  who'd  forgotten  their 

keys,  and Oh!"  as  Harry  raised  the  lid  of  the 

leathern  case,  "oh,  my!  oh,  my!  what  a  beautiful 
arrangement!  How  complete!  There's  a  place  for 

Oh,  my  dear,  just  let  me  look!"  and  the  sporting 

old  lady  drew  up  her  chair  and  gazed  upon  the 
interior  of  the  box  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  young 
mother  over  her  first  bassinette. 

Peter  was  so  entertained  with  watching  the  old 
lady  that  it  was  several  minutes  before  he  could  turn 
his  attention  to  the  object  of  her  enthusiasm.  When 
he  did  so,  at  length,  he  found  it  equal  to  Harry's 
prediction.  There  was  everything  there  that  a 
fisherman's  heart  could  desire,  it  would  seem. 
There  were  fly  books,  with  flies  of  every  conceivable 
size  and  colour,  from  the  gay  Parmacheeni  Belle  down 
to  the  modest  but  effective  Gray  Hackle.  There  was 
a  japanned  box  of  English  dry  flies,  so  small  and  deli- 
cate that  they  had  to  be  lifted  out  of  their  little 
glazed  nests  with  a  pair  of  small  pincers  provided  for 
the  purpose.  There  were  hooks,  ranging  in  size  from 
the  tiny  ones  in  which  the  English  dry  flies  were  tied 
to  the  large  ones  used  for  tarpon  fishing,  a  sport  in 


196  Q.  E.  D. 

which  even  Harry  admitted  Rob  could  give  him 
cards  and  spades.  There  were  reels,  large  and  small, 
each  in  its  elegant  little  leather  case.  The  beauty 
of  workmanship  and  the  effectiveness  of  the  mechan- 
ism of  these  latter  especially  interested  Peter,  who 
had  not  had  Harry's  opportunities  of  testing  them. 
He  played  with  them,  fascinated,  all  the  while  Harry 
and  his  mother  were  looking  over  the  rest  of  the  outfit 
and  selecting  the  leaders  of  which  Harry  stood  in  need. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Carlisle  at  last  with  a  little 
sigh,  "that  has  done  me  good!  Next  to  fishing 
itself,  I  do  love  to  play  with  the  tackle,  don't  you, 
Harry?  I  suppose  Peter  thinks  we're — what  do  you 
boys  say?  Nuts?  Yes,  nuts!  But  is  there  any- 
thing prettier  than  a  trout  fly,  really  ? "  She  caressed 
a  gaudy  Royal  Coachman  with  the  tip  of  her  finger 
before  she  closed  the  fly  book  and  put  it  carefully 
back  in  its  place. 

Peter  had  gone  over  to  the  window  the  better 
to  examine  a  fine  tarpon  reel,  which  was  one  of  the 
collection.  He  returned  as  Mrs.  Carlisle  spoke,  and 
answered  her  remark  with  a  little  smile  as  he  fitted 
the  reel  case  into  its  appointed  place. 

"We're  all  nuts  together,  Mrs.  Carlisle,"  he  said. 
"I  suppose  other  people  would  find  it  hard  to  under- 
stand the  fascination  of  catching  even  a  very  little 
trout,  and  tarpon  fishing  must  be  great.  What  sort 
of  line  do  you  use  for  tarpon,  Harry?  Are  there  any 
here?" 


AN  INTERLUDE  197 

"Don't  see  any,"  said  Carlisle,  running  a  leader 
through  his  fingers  and  testing  it  thoroughly.  "But 
it's  just  an  ordinary  heavy  linen  line." 

"You  wouldn't  think  linen  would  hold  a  big  fish 
like  that,  even  if  it  were  made  into  a  cable,"  said 
Peter,  glancing  at  a  picture  on  the  wall  which  showed 
one  of  the  great  fish  leaping  in  the  air.  "I  should 
think  you'd  need  a  steel  line." 

Carlisle  laughed. 

"That  shows  how  much  old  Red-top  really  knows, 
doesn't  it,  Mother,"  he  jeered.  "Imagine  a  steel 
line!  Why,  one  of  those  big  fellows,  Peter,  would  put 
a  kink  in  it  and  snap  it  off  like  a — like  a  pipe  stem. 
Never  mind  your  ignorance,  old  chap.  We'll  take 
you  down  to  Florida  next  winter,  if  you'll  come,  and 
show  you  some  real  sport,  won't  we,  Mother?" 

"We'd  love  to  have  you  come,  Peter,"  said  Mrs. 
Carlisle,  enthusiastically.  "Couldn't  you  manage 
it  somehow?  We'd  have  a  delightful  time,  and  we 
could  go  into  the  lake  country  after  bass — and 
there's  wonderful  shooting.  Do  say  you'll  try  to  do 
it!" 

"Fd  love  to,  Mrs.  Carlisle,"  said  Peter  with  a 
warm  feeling  at  his  heart.  He  had  made  a  good 
many  friends,  had  this  homely,  pleasant  young  man, 
but  not  many  had  made  him  feel  so  much  at  home,  so 
contented  and  cared  for,  as  had  these  two  kindly 
people.  There  is  a  camaraderie  among  those  who 
love  the  same  sport,  fishing  especially  perhaps,  which 


198  Q.  E.  D. 

is  a  thing  by  itself  and  quite  apart  from  the  ordinary 
relationships  of  our  semi-social  humanity. 

Peter,  looking  at  his  watch,  sighed  a  little.  Possibly 
because  it  was  time  to  bring  this  pleasant  interlude 
to  an  end.  Possibly  because  of  the  grave  and  serious 
business  to  which  he  must  now  return.  He  made  his 
warm  and  grateful  adieux  to  Mrs.  Carlisle,  promising 
to  return  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  again  ex- 
pressed his  regret  that  he  could  not  accompany 
Harry  upon  this  afternoon's  fishing  expedition,  and 
as  Harry  was  now  ready  to  start  in  quest  of  the 
speckled  beauties,  Peter  availed  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity, and  went  with  him  in  his  car  as  far  as  the 
station  in  Fern  Hills,  which  Harry  insisted  was 
directly  on  his  way. 

Peter,  who  had  still  a  few  minutes  left  before  train 
time,  watched  his  friend  drive  away.  As  the  swift 
car  vanished  in  the  distance  the  smile  which  he  had 
worn  in  bidding  Harry  good-bye  vanished  from  his 
face,  and  was  superseded  by  a  look  which  was  grave 
and  serious,  almost  threatening  in  its  solemnity. 

"  Fishers "  he  muttered  to  himself,  following  the 

thought  suggested  by  the  incidents  of  the  afternoon, 

"fishers Where  have  I  ^heard  it?  'Fishers  of 

men'  ...  of  men — and  women.  .  .  .  Well," 
with  a  shrug,  "all  fishing  is  sport,  after  a  fashion. 
But  Harry's  sort  has  no  ugliness  in  it — none.  While 

3" 

mine     .     .     .     r 

He  pulled  himself  together  as  the  train  whistled 


AN  INTERLUDE  199 

beyond  the  curve  of  shining  rails,  and  threw  back  his 
head. 

"It's  your  job,  Peter,"  he  said  to  himself,  firmly, 
"wherever  it  leads,  remember  that.  No  flinching. 
Forward — March ! " 

And  with  mind,  from  this  moment,  solely  con- 
centrated on  the  serious  problem  which  he  had 
undertaken  to  solve,  Peter  was  whirled  away  toward 
the  great  city  in  whose  maze  he  now  expected,  confi- 
dently, to  pick  up  a  thread  which  would  lead  him  to 
ultimate  success. 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  FRAME-UP? 

]V,iTSS  VIOLA  GALE  had  triumphantly  completed 
•*•*•*•  that  afternoon  the  one  hundredth  performance 
of  "The  Wishing  Stile."  It  was  an  event  heralded 
in  the  press,  and  fittingly  commemorated  by  the 
presentation  to  the  crowded  audience  of  alluring 
photographs  of  the  star  in  all  her  beauty,  signed  by 
her  own  fair  hand. 

As  the  shadows  of  the  tall  buildings  began  to 
lengthen  across  Times  Square  the  enthusiastic  crowd 
poured  out  of  the  theatre,  and  in  many  a  matinee- 
girlish  heart  was  raised  the  longing  to  look  and  be 
exactly  like  the  heroine  of  "The  Wishing  Stile",  the 
photograph  of  whom  was  clutched  tightly  between 
white-gloved  fingers. 

In  the  meantime,  the  subject  of  all  this  admiration 
was  rapidly  changing  to  street  clothes  in  her  gay  little 
dressing  room.  Her  cheeks  from  which  the  rouge  had 
been  removed  were  flushed  with  triumph.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  a  multitude  of  flowers, 
and  the  heat,  owing  to  the  unseasonable  sultriness  of 
the  day,  was  almost  intolerable.  But  Viola  Gale  gave 
no  heed  to  the  oppressiveness  of  the  atmosphere. 

200 


A  FRAME-UP?  201 

She  sang  and  laughed  as,  with  the  deft  aid  of  the 
dresser,  she  rapidly  donned  her  outer  garments,  and, 
flinging  open  the  door,  let  in  her  congratulatory 
manager  and  a  crowd  of  eager  young  reporters. 

If  she  had  looked  for  the  cheerful,  freckled  face 
and  red  head  of  Mr.  James  Flynn,  representing  the 
New  York  Meteor,  she  would  not  have  seen  them,  but 
that  young  man  bore  no  place  in  her  thoughts. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  shaken  off  the  last  of  the 
regular  representatives  of  the  press  by  laughingly 
closing  the  door  of  her  handsome  little  car  in  their 
eager  faces;  it  was  not  until  the  car  was  actually 
in  motion,  that  she  was  reminded  of  him  in  rather  a 
startling  and  forcible  manner. 

A  red  head  suddenly  appeared  at  the  car  door 
opposite  the  pavement,  as,  lightly  and  quietly  as  a 
cat,  a  young  man  leaped  to  the  running  board, 
opened  the  door,  closed  it  softly  and,  without  a  word, 
seated  himself  beside  her. 

"Well,  of  all  the  nerve!"  exclaimed  Viola  Gale, 
indignantly,  reaching  for  the  tube  which  communi- 
cated with  the  chauffeur  upon  the  seat  outside,  "I 
never 

Peter  Clancy  touched  her  arm. 

"Drop  it!"  he  said,  quietly,  but  with  so  much  of 
menace  in  his  steel-blue  eyes  that  she  gazed  at  him 
in  real  or  pretended  amazement. 

"I  have  a  lot  to  say  to  you,  Miss  Gale,  and  it's 
very  important  both  to  you  and  to — others  that  you 


202  Q.  E.  D. 

should  hear  me  out."     Peter's  voice  was  keen  and 
cold  and  his  eyes  never  left  her  face. 

"But  I  have  given  an  interview  to  the  Meteor 
already,"  she  said,  frowning  and  biting  her  red  lip. 
"It  was  the  Meteor,  wasn't  it?" 

"It's  not  the  Meteor  now,  whatever  it  may  have 
been,"  said  Peter,  throwing  off  the  last  remnant  of 
disguise.  "The  story  I'm  getting  from  you  now 
isn't  necessarily  for  publication." 

"The  story  you're  getting  from  me?"  she  repeated, 
angrily.     "You  seem  very  sure  of  yourself  Mr.  - 
Mr.Flynn!" 

"Nothing  to  it,"  said  Peter,  crisply.  "My  name  is 
Clancy.  It's  just  possible  you  may  have  heard  of 
me,  though  horrors  aren't  in  your  line,  I  remember 
you  said.  I'm  a  private  detective." 

She  started  at  this  and  looked  at  Peter  curiously. 
He  watched  her  face  intently  asjhe  added,  slowly, 
seriously,  with  pauses  between  the  short,  curt 
sentences,  "I'm  working  on  a  murder  case — the  case 
of  Walter  Brown.  .  .  .  He  was  killed  Thursday 
night  in  Fern  Hills  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  Louis 
Hood." 

If  he  expected  that  she  would  betray  herself  at  this 
startling  announcement  Peter  was  doomed  to  dis- 
appointment. The  woman  gazed  at  him  blankly, 
but  he  could  not  see  even  a  trace  of  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said 
Peter,  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice. 


A  FRAME-UP?  203 

"I  think  you  must  be  crazy,"  cried  Viola  Gale, 
swiftly  reaching  again  for  the  speaking  tube. 

Peter  caught  her  wrist  this  time  firmly  in  his 
hand,  unheeding  the  possibility  of  being  observed 
by  any  one  in  the  crowd  through  which  they  were 
passing. 

"Why  did  you  scream  outside  the  wall  of  Louis 
Hood's  place  on  Thursday  night?"  he  whispered  in 
her  ear.  "Did  something  frighten  you?" 

She  dropped  the  tube  as  if  it  had  burned  through 
her  spotless  white  glove. 

"My  God!"  she  breathed.  "What — what  do  you 
mean?" 

"I'm  curious  to  know  what  explanation  you  have 
to  offer  for  your  presence  there,"  said  Peter,  eyeing 
her  watchfully,  "exactly  at  the  time  of  the  mur- 
der." 

A  strange  look  came  over  the  beautiful  face,  but 
Viola  Gale  made  no  reply. 

The  car  slowed  down  and  stopped  before  a  rather 
flamboyant  apartment  house  in  Fifty-seventh  Street. 

"You  live  here?"  Peter  questioned. 

The  woman  nodded. 

"I  have  an  apartment — to  rest  between  per- 
formances," she  said  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"You  must  see  that  we  have  a  lot  to  say  to  each 
other,  Miss  Gale,"  said  Peter.  "You  will  let  me 
come  in  with  you  so  that  we  can  talk  quietly." 
There  was  authority  in  every  word. 


204  Q.  E.  D. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  car  and  turned  to  give  her 
his  hand  in  alighting.  She  ignored  it  and  spoke  to 
the  chauffeur. 

"At  seven-thirty,  John,"  she  said,  mechanically, 
and  as  one  in  a  daze,  crossed  the  sidewalk. 

Peter  did  not  speak  as  he  opened  the  doors  for  her 
to  pass.  In  the  elevator  he  regarded  her  averted 
face  in  silence.  It  was  not  until  the  trim  maid,  who 
opened  the  door  of  the  apartment,  had  left  them 
alone  that  Peter  spoke. 

"You'd  better  sit  down,"  he  said,  noting  the  pallor 
of  her  face,  "and  let  me  take  your  wrap.  It's 
stifling  in  here." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  sank  upon  a  couch,  letting 
her  fur-trimmed  coat  drop  from  her  shoulders.  For 
a  moment  Peter  thought  she  was  going  to  faint. 
Hastily,  he  crossed  to  the  windows  and  threw  them 
wide.  The  air  that  came  in  was  heavy  and  ener- 
vating. The  sky  was  darkened  in  the  west  by 
lowering  clouds,  though  the  sun  still  shone  redly. 
There  was  a  strange  light  in  the  frivolous,  perfumed 
room — a  lurid  red  light,  casting  greenish  shadows. 
In  its  rays,  the  woman,  in  all  the  gay  trappings  of 
her  success,  sat  as  if  turned  to  ice. 

Peter  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself  deliber- 
ately. 

"Come,  now,  Miss  Gale,  let's  get  down  to  cases." 

His  voice  was  cold  and  hard,  without  a  trace  of 
pity  or  compunction.  At  the  sound  of  it  she  stirred 


A  FRAME-UP?  205 

and  shivered,  but  her  eyes  remained  fixed,  with  an 
expression  as  if  she  saw  nothing. 

"You  carried  things  off  very  well  last  night,  when 
I  called  your  attention  to  the  murder  at  Fern  Hills," 
Peter  went  on,  "but  it  won't  do,  Miss  Gale.  You 
can't  fool  me.  I  know  too  much." 

Still  she  said  nothing. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Peter,  impatiently,  insistently, 
"you  can't  get  away  with  it  like  this.  You'd  better 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  I  know  you  were  only  an 
accomplice — that  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
actual  murder  of  Walter  Brown." 

At  the  name  she  roused  herself  and  the  faintest 
tinge  of  colour  crept  into  her  set  face. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  she 
said,  with  a  visible  effort.  "I  never  even  heard  of 
Walter  Brown,  and  as  far  as  I  know,  I've  never  been 
in  Fern  Hills  in  my  life." 

Peter  gazed  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment  and  then 
shook  his  head. 

"Not  good  enough,  Miss  Gale.  Pretty  fair  try, 
but  you  can't  put  it  across."  He  leaned  forward  and 
his  steely  glance  was  unwavering.  "You  went  with 
the  murderer  to  Fern  Hills  Thursday  afternoon  in 
a  good,  closed  car  that  had  an  almost  new  Farns- 
worth  t  ink  tire  on  the  right  rear  wheel.  You  reached 
Mr.  Hood's  place  a  little  before  seven.  You  left 
the  car  just  west  of  the  boundary  of  the  estate  and 
walked  on,  by  yourself,  along  the  road,  until  you  were 


206  Q.  E.  D. 

opposite  the  house.  Then  you  hid  in  the  bushes 
outside  the  wall — and  did  what  you  were  sent  there 
to  do." 

The  woman  drew  a  sharp,  hissing  breath  and  her 
hands  clutched  and  clung  together  in  her  lap.  Her 
nostrils  quivered  and  her  eyes  dilated  but  remained 
fixed  on  vacancy.  .  Not  once  had  she  looked  at 
Peter. 

"When  it  was  over,"  Peter  went  on,  sternly,  "you 
hurried  back  to  the  car,  where  your  companion  joined 
you  at  once.  You  drove  to  Lounsberry,  reaching 
the  station  just  as  the  6:59  train  came  in.  You 
separated  there.  He  went  off  in  the  car  and  you  took 
the  train  to  New  York.  You  wore  a  yashmak  veil, 
I  think  they  call  'em,  but  the  train  was  hot,  and  as 
you  were  in  the  rear  seat,  you  felt  safe  in  taking  it 
off.  It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  Miss  Gale.  You're 
much  too  well  known." 

She  had  been  listening  intently,  though  her  face, 
pale  and  rigid,  had  not  changed  in  its  awful,  still 
expression.  Now  she  slipped  down  sidewise  among 
the  cushions  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"You  see  how  much  I  know  already,"  said  Peter, 
following  up  his  advantage.  "It'll  be  easy  to  find 
out  the  rest,  but  I  can  do  it  quicker  with  your  help. 
You  spill  what  you  know  and  I'll  see  you're  taken 
care  of,  understand.  If  you  tell  me  the  whole  story 
without  holding  anything  back,  if  you  confess  who 
it  was  who  killed  Walter  Brown " 


A  FRAME-UP?  207 

She  roused  herself  at  that,  and  raising  her  head, 
for  the  first  time  looked  Peter  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Impossible!"  she  cried  in  a  controlled  voice,  "I 
don't  know  anything  about  any — any  murder.  I 
never  heard  of  this  Walter  Brown." 

Peter  swiftly  drew  out  the  photograph  he  had 
obtained  from  the  police  and  placed  it  before  her. 

"Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  you  never  saw  this  face 
before,"  he  said,  thrusting  his  head  forward  and 
regarding  her  intently. 

She  started  convulsively  and  drew  back. 

"Wallace,"   she   breathed,   "Wallace   Farnham!" 

Then  she  leaned  forward,  drooping  her  head  above 
the  portrait.  Her  aureole  of  bright  gold  hair  hid  her 
face. 

"Wallie,"  she  whispered,  softly,  after  a  moment. 
"Poor  old  Wallie."  She  looked  up  at  Peter  sud- 
denly. "Why  are  his  eyes  closed?"  she  asked,  fear- 
fully. "Was  he  asleep — or — 

"Dead,"  answered  Peter,  sternly.  "He  was  mur- 
dered at  Louis  Hood's  the  night  before  last — and  by 
vour  means,  if  not  by  your  hand." 

"My— God !"  she  cried,  brokenly,  "not  Wallie 

Not  poor  Wallie !  Oh,  you  can't  mean — 

Her  surprise  and  sorrow  were  apparently  so 
genuine  that  Peter  had  to  remind  himself  that  she 
was  a  clever  actress,  trained  to  dissimulation. 

"This  is  the  photograph,  taken  by  the  police,  of 
the  man  who  was  murdered  at  Louis  Hood's  house 


208  Q.  E.  D. 

on  Thursday  night,"  said  Peter,  coldly.  "The  man 
who  was  called  Walter  Brown." 

For  a  long  moment  she  gazed  at  the  photograph. 
Then  she  raised  her  head  and  again  met  Peter's 
eyes. 

"I  knew  him  years  ago,  in  Frisco,  when  I  was  a 
young  girl,"  she  said,  slowly,  in  an  awed,  hushed 
voice.  "You  probably  won't  believe  me,  but  I 
haven't  seen  him  for  almost  ten  years." 

"But  you  knew  where  he  was  most  of  that  time," 
said  Peter,  quick  to  take  advantage  of  her  admission. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  lost  track  of  him  a  long  time  ago  and  haven't 
heard  from  him  since,"  she  said.  "He  went  to 
Japan,  I  think I'm  not  sure." 

"How  well  did  you  know  him,  this  long  time  ago 
that  you  speak  of?"  asked  Peter.  His  eyes  were 
narrowed.  Every  faculty  was  on  the  alert  to  fathom 
the  depths  of  her  mind,  to  separate  the  true  from  the 
false. 

"I  knew  him  very  well,  poor  Wallie,"  she  said,  a 
little  note  of  tenderness  and  regret  creeping  into  her 
troubled  voice.  "I  was  only  eighteen,  and  he  was — 
oh,  something,  I  had  never  known  at  that  time.  He 
was  gay  and  sporty — but  different  from  the  kind  of 

men  I  had  run  up  against.  He We It 

was  only  boy  and  girl  stuff No  harm And 

then  I I  went  on  the  stage — and  things  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  He  went  away — and  I  never  saw 


A  FRAME-UP?  209 

him  again."  She  added  the  last  words  in  a  convinc- 
ing tone  and  met  Peter's  eyes  squarely. 

Peter  was  puzzled. 

"Then  why — why  should  you  have  helped  do  him 
in?"  he  asked,  studying  her  intently. 

"I  didn't!  Oh,  I  didn't!"  she  cried,  confusedly. 
"I  wouldn't  have  hurt  him  for  the  world.  For  the 
sake  of  old  times !  For " 

"But,"  exclaimed  Peter,  "you  did  help  in  the  plot! 
Didn't  you  know " 

"No,  no!"  she  almost  screamed,  "I  didn't  know! 
I  never  guessed!  I—  Oh,  my  God!  I  can't 
understand  even  now.  .  .  .  It's — it's  unthink- 
able !  I  can't  believe  what  you  tell  me !  There  must 
be  some  mistake — some — 

"But  you  did  go  to  Fern  Hills,"  insisted  Peter. 
"You  did  stand  outside  the  wall  at  the  Hood  place 
and  scream,  as  it  was  planned  you  should.  You 
can't  deny  it,  I've  got  the  goods  on  you.  You  can't 
play  off  innocent  to  me!" 

"I  am  innocent,  just  the  same!"  cried  Viola  Gale. 
"I  am!  I  am!  I  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do 
with Oh,  I  can't  understand — I  can't  think 

All  the  carefree  almost  reckless  gaiety  which 
characterized  her,  had  vanished  utterly,  from  the 
moment  Peter  had  whispered  to  her  in  the  car. 
That,  he  could  comprehend.  What  puzzled  him  was 
a  something  in  her  manner,  since  he  had  made  his 
knowledge  of  her  movements  on  that  fatal  night  clear 


210  Q.  E.  D. 

to  her;  a  strange  bewilderment,  a  confused  un- 
certainty, difficult  to  reconcile  with  complicity  in  a 
criminal  plot. 

"Let's  hear  your  story  of  what  happened  Thurs- 
day night,"  he  said,  after  giving  her  a  moment  to  re- 
gain some  portion  of  her  self-control.  "  If,  by  some 
strange  fluke,  you  really  are  innocent,  you  can't 
have  any  reason  for  protecting  the  guilty  parties. 
I'll  hear  what  you  have  to  say  and  try  to  believe  it. 
Honest,  I  will."  His  tone  was  perceptibly  altered. 
It  was  necessary  to  gain  her  confidence  by  any 
means,  so  Peter  smiled  at  her  reassuringly. 

"I — I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  hesitated; 
"I  don't  want  to  give  away — I  don't  want  to  make 
trouble  for — any  one — when Oh,  I  can't  be- 
lieve that  there  was  any  harm — that  he  would  de- 
ceive me  into — with  such  a  thing  on  his  mind.  .  .  . 
I- 

"Who  would  deceive  you?"  prompted  Peter. 
"And  how?" 

"I  won't  tell  you  who,"  said  Viola  Gale,  closing 
her  lovely  lips  firmly,  "at  least,  not  till  I  see  my 
way  better — and  not  even  then,  unless — 

She  paused  a  second,  considering  deeply.  Peter 
was  struck  with  a  momentary  sense  that  the  woman 
had  much  more  character  than  he  had  at  first  sup- 
posed. She  went  on  almost  at  once: 

"  But  I  will  tell  you  my  part  of  it  and  maybe  you 
can  see.  .  .  .  There  must  be  an  explanation, 


A  FRAME-UP?  211 

and  you,  with  your  experience,  may  be  able  to 
guess.  .  .  .  Well,  anyway,  here's  what  happened. 
I — I  don't  know  exactly  where  to  start.  I — I 

know  a  man He's  a — a  sort  of  friend  of  mine. 

."  Peter  gathered  from  her  manner  that 
the  man  in  question  was  rather  more  of  a  friend 
than  she  cared  to  admit.  "We've  had  some  busi- 
ness dealings — and  we've  played  the  races  together 
and  had  a  great  run  of  luck.  .  .  .  Well — he 
told  me  he  had  a  bet  up  about  a  man  he  knew— a 
man  named  Russell  Stowe.  He  said  Stowe  was  a 
coward  and  he  wanted  to  show  him  up 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  looking  at  her  watchfully. 
"Go  on." 

"It  was  a  big  bet,  and  he  said  he'd  give  me  half  if 
I'd  help  him." 

"Who  said?"  asked  Peter,  quickly.  But  she  was 
not  to  be  caught  so  easily. 

"My  friend,"  she  answered,  sharply.  "The  man 
I  am  speaking  about.  I'm  not  going  to  give  him 
away,  Mr. — 

"Clancy,"  supplied  Peter. 

"Mr.  Clancy,"  she  repeated,  firmly,  "So  don't 
think  it.  I  never  double-crossed  a  pal  in  my  life  and 
it's  too  late  to  begin  now." 

"Not  even  if  I  prove  to  you  that  he's  a  rotten 
criminal?  That  he  killed  your  old  lover,  Wallace 
Farnham;  that  he  entangled  you — 

"No,   no.     Impossible!     He  never  knew  Wallie. 


212  Q.  E.  D. 

It  couldn't  have  been!  You'll  have  to  prove  it 
before  we  can  talk,"  she  countered,  swiftly,  "and  I 
don't  believe  it,  not  for  a  minute!  But  I'm  going  to 
clear  my  own  skirts  in  any  case.  I  owe  that  to 
myself." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Peter,  "shoot!  You  were  to 
go  fifty-fifty  on  the  bet.  And  what  was  your  part?" 

"He  had  it  all  thought  out,"  Miss  Gale  continued, 
"and  it  wasn't  anything  but  a  lark.  He  knew  Rus- 
sell Stowe  was  to  be  alone  in  his  house  in  the  country 
last  Thursday  night.  He'd  made  sure  by  sending 
theatre  tickets  to  the  two  servants,  so  they'd  be  out  of 
the  way." 

Peter  drew  in  his  breath  quickly  and  followed  her 
words  with  ever-increasing  attention,  though  he  did 
not  interrupt  her  by  so  much  as  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Stowe  was  going  to  dinner  with  some  friends 
and  was  to  leave  his  house  at  about  seven.  My  part 
was  to  wait  in  the  bushes  in  front  of  the  house  until 
I  saw  him  at  the  door.  Then  I  was  to  scream — hard, 
you  know,  as  if  I  were  being  murdered,  or  something. 
If  he  came  to  my  rescue,  then  it  was  all  off",  see? 
But  if  he  didn't  come,  why,  it  would  be  because  he 
was  scared.  Didn't  want  to  get  mixed  up  in  a  row, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  you  get  the  idea?" 

"Good  lord,"  said  Peter  under  his  breath,  "can  this 
be  true?"  Aloud  he  only  said,  "I  get  vou.  Go 
on." 

"Well — there's  nothing  more  except  that's  what 


A  FRAME-UP?  213 

I  did,  all  right.  And  Mr.  Stowe  didn't  come,  though 
I  screamed  enough  to  wake  the  dead." 

"To  wake  the  dead,"  repeated  Peter.  "No,  not 
quite  enough  to  wake  the  dead.  If  you  had,  Walter 
Brown,  or  Wallace  Farnham,  as  you  call  him,  would 
have  kept  on  running.  But  you  want  me  to  think 
you  didn't  know  it  was  Wallace  Farnham?" 

"So  help  me  God,  I  didn't,"  her  words  had  the 
solemnity  of  an  oath.  "I  thought  the  man  I  saw 
for  just  the  shortest  second  was  the  owner  of  the 
house.  I  was  told  that  he  was  tall  and  thin,  and 
would  be  dressed  in  some  kind  of  camping  clothes. 
Well,  that's  what  I  saw.  It  was  getting  pretty  dark, 
but  there  was  a  light  in  the  hall  behind  him  when  he 
opened  the  door  and  I  saw  him  pretty  plain — not  his 
face.  He  was  too  far  off  for  that,  and  the  light  was 
behind  him.  But  he  answered  the  description,  and  I 
had  no  reason  to  think " 

"That  it  wasn't  Walter  Farnham?"  said  Peter, 
watching  her  keenly. 

"That  it  wasn't  the  owner  of  the  house,"  she  in- 
sisted, tensely,  "I  was  told  that  his  name  was  Russell 
Stowe.  I  can't  believe  even  now " 

"And  you  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  town  you 
were  in?"  interrupted  Peter,  incredulously. 

"No.  I  had  no  idea.  I  was  interested  in  putting 
the  game  across,  and  didn't  think  to  ask.  I  knew 
that  it  was  Jersey,  and  that  we  went  through  Newark. 
But  it  was  getting  dark  and  I  didn't  notice  much 


214  Q.  E.  D. 

about  the  towns  we  passed.  It  was  mostly  country 
roads  after  that,  anyway." 

"You  mean  you  took  back  roads?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  spoke  as  if  the  idea  had  not 
occurred  to  her  until  Peter  suggested  it.  "They 
were  kind  of  lonely,  I  think,  but  I  don't  know  the 
country  much." 

"So  you  didn't  connect  your  sporting  adventure 
with  the  crime  at  Fern  Hills  when  I  showed  you  the 
paper  last  night?"  probed  Peter.  "You  had  no 
idea  that  it  concerned  you  in  any  way  or  that  Walter 
Brown  was  any  one  you  knew?  Is  that  what  you 
want  me  to  think?" 

"Whether  you  believe  it  or  not,  it's  the  truth! 
I  had  no  idea  the  man  you  call  Walter  Brown  was 
even  in  this  country." 

Peter  pondered  a  moment.  Then  he  asked 
abruptly:  "Is  this  man,  the  one  who  took  you  out 
to  Jersey,  I  mean,  in  love  with  you,  Miss  Gale?'* 

She  flushed  darkly  but  replied  at  once: 

"No." 

"You're  sure?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  shortly.  "I'm  sure.  I 
happen  to  know  that  he's — that  he's  in  love  with 
another  woman." 

"  Do  you  know  who  it  is  ? " 

"Yes,  but  I  won't  tell  you.  Certainly  not  till  I  see 
my  way  clearer.  It  would  be  a  means  of  tracking 
him.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  not  to  be  wise  to  that." 


A  FRAME-UP?  215 

"And  you'd  protect  this  man  who's  in  love  with 
another  woman?"  urged  Peter,  eyeing  her  curiously. 

"That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it,  Mr.  Clancy/ 
she  said,  coldly.  "He's  been  a  pal  of  mine,  and  he's 
backing  me  up  and  helping  me  to  make  a  lot  of 
money,  and  whatever  else  they  may  say  of  me,  no 
one  has  ever  had  reason  to  say  that  Vi  Gale  wasn't  a 
good  sport,  or  wouldn't  stand  by  her  friends." 

"Very  creditable  to  you,  no  doubt,  Miss  Gale,  but 
rough  on  me,"  said  Peter,  with  a  dour  grin.  "Now 
let  me  see.  You  don't  think,  then,  that  this  friend  of 
yours  could  have  been  jealous  of  Walter  Brown,  or 
Wallace  Farnham,  or  whatever  his  name  was?" 

"Jealous?  No.  Certainly  not.  How  could  he 
have  been,  even  supposing — why,  I  never  mentioned 
Wallie's  name  to  him." 

"Hmm,"  said  Peter,  slowly,  thoughtfully,  "let  me 
get  this  straight.  You  saw  a  man  come  to  the  door— 
and  then  you  screamed — and  nothing  happened.  .  .  . 
So  you  thought  you  and  your  friend  had  won  the  bet. 
Is  that  right?" 

"Yes,  and  the  other  man  agreed  that  he  had  lost." 

"The  other  man?"  questioned  Peter,  quickly. 
"The  other  party  to  the  bet?  Was  he  there?" 

"Why,  yes — yes.  Of  course  he  would  have  had 
to  be  there  to  see  for  himself." 

"Did  you  see  him?"  insisted  Peter.  "Who  was 
he?  Would  you  know  him  again?" 

"Why — why,  no,"  answered  Viola  Gale,  a  trace  of 


216  Q.  E.  D. 

uncertainty  in  her  voice.  "It  was  someone  who 
lives  in  the  neighbourhood  and  he  was  hidden  up 
near  the  house.  I,"  she  dropped  on  a  lower  note,  "I 
didn't  see  him  at  all." 

"Oh— h— h,"  said  Peter,  slowly.  "Then  what 
makes  you  think  he  was  there?" 

"I  was  told  that  he  was,  and  I  naturally  supposed 
that  he  was,  because  the  bet  was  settled  on  the 
spot." 

"You  mean  you  got  your  share  on  the  nail?" 

"Yes." 

"Much?"  asked  Peter,  and  as  she  hesitated: 
"Come,  Miss  Gale,  it  must  have  been  a  pretty  tidy 
sum  to  make  you  willing  to  be  late  at  that  night's 
performance.  How  much  was  it  ? " 

"Seven  hundred  and  fifty,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Whew!"  whistled  Peter,  "and  that  didn't  make 
you  suspicious?  If  that  was  half,  the  whole  bet  must 
have  amounted  to  fifteen  hundred !" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly. 

"That  wasn't  so  much  to  him.  I've  seen  him 
lose  more  than  that  at  roulette  in  a  night  and  never 
turn  a  hair.  He's  a  dead  game  sport,  whatever  else 
he  is." 

"Well,  I  can't  think  he  treated  you  very  well,  Miss 
Gale,  letting  you  run  the  risk  you  did.  He  didn't 
even  warn  you  to  be  careful  on  the  train]  not  to  let 
anybody  know  who  you  were,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  he  did,"  she  answered,  defensively.     "He 


A  FRAME-UP?  217 

'x 

advised  me  to  keep  out  of  sight  since  I'd  sent  word 
to  the  theatre  that  I  was  too  ill  to  be  there  for  the 
first  act.  But  I  didn't  think  it  was  very  important, 
and  the  train  was  suffocating." 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  weighing  her  story  carefully  in 
his  mind,  "your  explanation  accounts  for  a  lot  of 
things  and  you've  framed  it  up  cleverly." 

"I  haven't  framed  it  up  at  all,"  retorted  Viola 
Gale,  furiously.  "If  there's  any  frame  up,  it's 
yours !  I  don't  believe  you  can  connect  either  me  or 
my  friend  with — with  this  thing  you  say,  you — this 
crime  that's  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  say 
anything  more.  I  was  on  the  train  and  I  was  some- 
where in  Jersey  Thursday  night,  but  it  was  just  a 
lark — a  bet.  I  won't  believe  it  was  anything  else! 
Neither  my  friend  nor  I. knew  that  Wallie  Farnham 
was  in  this  country!  What  I've  told  you  is  the 
truth.  But  I  won't  tell  you  anything  more.  I'm 
sorry  I've  said  as  much  as  I  have,  only—  Oh,  go 
away,  for  God's  sake,  and  let  me  think !  I  have  to  go 
on  at  eight  forty  to-night,  and  how  can  I  ever — 

The  strain  was  telling  heavily  upon  her.  She  was 
almost  hysterical.  Peter  was  sure  he  had  learned  all 
he  could  hope  for  at  the  present.  There  was  much 
that  he  wanted  to  consider.  He  must  have  time  to 
think — to  put  this  and  that  together. 

With  a  few  hurried  words  he  left  Viola  Gale  in  the 
care  of  her  maid  and  descended  to  the  street.  Night 
was  coming  swiftly  on.  The  heavy  clouds  in  the 


218  Q.  E.  D. 

west  were  rolling  in,  darkening  the  greenish  sky. 
Peter  glanced  about  and  saw  a  wiry  young  man 
lounging  along  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  pavement. 
He  crossed  quickly  over,  and  went  forward  until 
they  were  abreast. 

"On  your  toes,  Rawhns!"  said  Peter,  without 
looking  to  right  or  left.  "Keep  on  'em!"  and  passed 
rapidly  out  of  sight — his  thoughts  keeping  pace  with 
his  hurrying  feet. 

"If  Viola  Gale's  story  turns  out  to  be  true,"  he 
considered  within  himself,  "if  she  didn't  know  that 
Walter  Brown  was  in  the  country  at  all — if  her 
friend,  the  man  of  the  phony  bet,  didn't  know  Walter 
Brown  from  a  hole  in  the  ground — which  would  seem 
likely  in  that  case;  if  she  thought  that  'Russell 
Stowe',  as  she  called  him,  was  alone  in  the  house — 
her  sporting  friend  may  have  thought  so,  too, 
and  then — why,  then — by  gad,  of  course!  Why, 
then —  "  he  stopped  suddenly.  "  By  all  that's  holy, 
Pete — it  was  the  wrong  man  that  came  out  of  the 
house!  The  wrong  man!  And  if  O'Malley's  got 
the  results  I'm  looking  for.  .  .  .  By  the  living 
Jehoshaphat,  I  see  it  all!  I — 

Dashing  madly  into  the  street,  he  hailed  a  passing 
taxi  and  with  thoughts  still  rushing  wildly  through 
his  brain  was  whirled  rapidly  away. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  NAME  Is 


TT  WAS  blood?" 

-*•  Peter's  words  were  half  question,  half  state- 
ment, and  he  leaned  across  the  desk  looking  earnestly 
into  the  quiet,  wise  old  eyes  of  his  partner,  Captain 
O'Malley. 

"You've  said  it,"  said  the  old  man,  tersely.  "There 
was  mighty  little  of  it,  but  Van  Dorn  &  Sawyer 
say  there's  no  doubt.  It  was  human  blood.  Here's 
their  report." 

Peter  looked  eagerly  at  the  letter  which  Captain 
O'Malley  placed  before  him  and  then  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"I've  got  him,  O'Malley!"  he  cried,  exultantly. 
"I  see  it  all  clear  now!  By  gad,  it  was  some  plot, 
I'll  tell  the  world.  Neat!  Neat!  It  ought  to  have 
worked !  And  if  it  hadn't  been  that—  But  there's 
no  time  to  waste.  He  may  be  on,  even  now,  damn 

him   for   a   cold-blooded He  caught  up  the 

telephone  instrument  from  the  desk. 

"Get  me  Fern  Hills  33,"  he  said,  quickly,  with  his 
ear  to  the  receiver,  and  seating  himself  again,  he 
turned  back  to  speak  long  and  earnestly  to  his 
partner. 

219 


220  Q.  E.  D. 

Several  times  he  interrupted  his  instructions  and 
explanations  to  put  in  calls  to  different  persons.  At 
last  he  rose  hurriedly. 

"  Don't  leave  a  stone  unturned,  old  man,"  he  said, 
rapidly.  "You  know  just  what  to  do,  and  no  one  in 
God's  world  could  do  it  better.  I've  got  to  beat  it 
now,  but  I'll  leave  this  end  of  the  job  in  your  hands. 
Better  keep  Rawlins  where  he  is,  and  you  take  up  the 
trail  of  that  infernal  scoundrel  yourself." 

"All  right,  Pete,"  said  O'Malley,  alertly,  getting 
lightly  to  his  feet  and  reaching  for  his  hat.  There 
was  a  deep  gleam  in  his  wary  little  eyes  and  he  laid 
his  hand  on  Peter's  shoulder  with  a  gesture  of  af- 
fectionate admiration.  "You're  all  to  the  good,  lad," 
he  said,  quietly.  "I  don't  believe  one  man  in  ten 
thousand  would  have 

"Cut  it  out,  old  man,"  said  Peter,  with  a  little 
smile.  "I  played  in  all  kinds  of  luck,  and — 

"Knew  how  to  take  advantage  of  it,"  finished 
O'Malley.  "Lots  of  'em  don't.  So  long,  and  good 
luck." 

The  two  men  parted  at  the  sidewalk,  and  Peter 
went  rapidly  over  to  Sixth  Avenue  where  he  hailed 
a  taxi  and  was  driven  down  to  the  Thirty-third 
Street  terminal  of  the  Hudson  Tubes. 

The  slowness  of  the  train  which  took  him  to  Fern 
Hills  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear,  but  it  gave 
him  time  to  go  over  and  over  the  evidence  in  the  case, 
sorting  and  arranging  the  events  in  his  mind,  in  their 


"THE  NAME  IS "  221 

logical  sequence,  fitting  motives  to  acts,  in  view  of 
facts  which  O'Malley  had  obtained  for  him  with  a 
celerity  and  precision  bearing  eloquent  witness  to  the 
old  man's  undiminished  powers.  Little  by  little, 
every  obscure  circumstance  came  clear  and  took  its 
place.  By  the  time  he  reached  Fern  Hills,  he  could 
have  told  the  story  of  that  fatal  night  of  the  thirty- 
first  of  March  as  if  he,  himself,  had  been  an  eye 
witness.  Not  an  event,  not  a  motive  remained 
unexplained  to  his  keen,  analytical  mind.  Every 
fact  dropped  into  line  and  fitted  to  a  hair's  breadth. 

"Good  God,  Peter,  I  can't  believe  it!" 

Harrison  caught  Clancy  by  the  arm  as  he  de- 
scended from  the  train  and  pulled  him  out  of  ear- 
shot of  the  few  other  passengers  who  had  alighted  at 
the  same  time. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  for  Heaven's  sake.  I'm  com- 
pletely stunned  and  don't  know  whether  I'm  on  my 
head  or  my  feet,"  and  indeed  Carlisle  looked  as  if 
this  were  the  literal  truth.  "I  got  what  you  were 
driving  at  over  the  'phone,  though  you  mentioned 
no  names,  but  it  doesn't  seem  possible." 

"It's  a  fact,  just  the  same,  Harry,"  said  Peter, 
grimly.  "He's  the  blackest  kind  of  criminal.  The 
cold,  planning,  long-headed  sort.  I've  got  the 
goods  on  him,  and  I  can  prove  every  proposition  in  the 
case,  even  without  the  help  I  expect  to  get  from — — 
But  I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  later.  Is  Louis  Hood 


222  Q.    E.    D. 

here  with" you?"  He  asked  the  question  in  an  al- 
tered tone,  and  Carlisle  glanced  at  him  swiftly, 

"Yes,  I  brought  him  over  as  you  told  me  to.  He's 
as  much  up  in  the  air  as  I  am.  He's  waiting  in  the 
car.  Other  side  of  the  station.  This  way." 

In  the  faint  light  reflected  from  the  station  lamps 
Louis  Hood's  face  showed  white  and  troubled,  tense 
with  a  mixture  of  horror  and  relief.  Peter  grasped 
the  silently  extended  hand  with  a  heartfelt,  firm 
pressure. 

"Get  over  to  Morrisville  as  fast  as  God  '11  let  you, 
Harry,"  Peter  said,  swiftly.  "There's  room  for  me 
on  the  front  seat,  too,  isn't  there?  I've  got  a  lot  that 
I  want  you  both  to  hear,  and  we  can  talk  best  this 
way.  Am  I  crowding  you?  No?  All  right,  Harry, 
shoot!" 

The  car,  the  engine  of  which  had  been  kept 
running,  leaped  forward  like  a  live  thing,  and  the 
lights  of  the  village  flashed  past  in  a  long  luminous 
blur. 

"Did  you  get  old  Winkle  all  right?"  Peter  had 
asked,  as  they  shot  around  the  curve  of  the  station 
driveway. 

"Yes,"  said  Harry,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  road. 
"  He'll  be  waiting  for  us,  though  he  wouldn't  believe 
what  I  told  him." 

"That  I  had  all  the  dope?  No,  he  wouldn't," 
said  Peter,  grimly.  "I  suppose  he's  looking  for  a  new 
brand  of  sky-pilot  who  chucks  bodies  out  of  aero- 


"THE  NAME  IS-  223 

planes.  He'll  take  a  lot  of  convincing,  but  it  doesn't 
matter.  I  know  what  I  know.  " 

"But  are  you  sure,  Clancy?"  Louis  Hood  spoke  for 
the  first  time  and  his  voice  was  tense  with  emotion. 

"Yes,  Hood,  I  am  certain,"  said  Peter,  gravely, 
"and  I'll  give  you  the  whole  story  as  soon  as  we  get 
hold  of  Inspector  Winkle.  It's  a  long  one,  and  a 
damned  unpleasant  one,  and  I  don't  want  to  go  over 
it  twice,  for  your  sake  as  much  as  my  own.  If  you'll 
just  be  content  with  the  facts,  as  I  have  stated  them, 
for  a  little  while,  I'll  prove  to  you  every  proposition 
I've  made.  In  the  meantime —  '  he  hesitated, 
and  then  went  on  with  frank  sincerity:  "In  the 
meantime,  I  have  to  make  my  apologies  to  you. 
For  one  little  while  I  didn't  believe  you  were  telling 
me  the  entire  truth.  It  seemed —  '  he  hesitated. 
"I  hope  you'll  forgive  me.  I  run  up  against  all  kinds 
of  queer  things  in  my  life,  and  I  have  to  put  every 
person  in  any  way  connected  with  a  crime  on  trial 
in  my  own  mind.  I  can't  afford  to  overlook  any 
bet,  no  matter  what  the  odds  are.  You  see  that, 
don't  you?"  he  asked,  a  trifle  wistfully. 

"I'm  a  lawyer,  you  know,"  said  Hood,  quietly, 
"and  I  can  fully  appreciate  your  position.  So  you 
thought— 

"I  didn't  go  quite  so  far  as  to  think  it,"  said  Peter, 
quickly,  "but  I  did  admit  to  myself  the  possibility 
that —  You  see,  apparently  you  were  the  only 
person  who  knew  that—  Shall  I  call  him  by  his 


224  Q.  E.  D. 

right  name?  Harry  can  be  trusted,  you  know,  and  I 
don't  think  there  is  any  possible  necessity  for  its 
going  further." 

"You  know,  then  ? "  Hood's  voice  was  low  and  deep. 

"Yes.  I  made  inquiries  and  figured  out  that  the 
man  you  were  so  willing  to  befriend — the  man  who 
sometimes  called  himself  'Walter  Brown'  and 
sometimes  'Wallace  Farnham' — could  be  no  other 
than You  don't  mind  ?" 

"No.  Harry  has  a  right  to  the  whole  story,  if 
anybody  has."  Hood  spoke  with  feeling  and  glanced 
aside  at  his  friend  with  affection  and  gratitude. 

"Who  was  it,  Peter?"  asked  Carlisle,  eagerly. 

"It  was  Walter  Farquhar." 

The  car  swerved  violently,  but  Carlisle  brought 
it  back  to  the  road  instantly. 

"Walter  Farquhar?"  he  repeated,  dazedly.  "Walter 
Farquhar?  You  don't  mean ' 

"It  was  Sylvia's  brother,"  Hood  replied,  sadly. 
"He'd  been  in  all  sorts  of  trouble  and  I  did  not  want 
it  to  get  out — to  get  into  the  papers — for  her  sake." 

"I — see,"  said  Harry,  slowly,  "I  see.  So  that 
was  why  you  pumped  me  about  Sylvia,"  he  added, 
leaning  over  to  look  in  Peter's  face.  "You  sus- 
pected  " 

"A  man  needs  a  strong  motive  to  keep  silence,  as 
Mr.  Hood  did,"  explained  Peter,  "and  I  started  at 
what  looked  to  me  the  most  promising  place." 

"Peter's  got  a  great  old  head,  Louis,"  said  Carlisle, 


"THE  NAME  IS "  225 

admiringly,  "and  you'd  be  surprised  at  the  questions, 
possible  and  impossible,  that  he  asks.  He  wanted 
to  know,  among  other  crazy  things,  if  Sylvia  had 
ever  been  married.  What  d'you  think  of  that?" 

Hood  looked  hard  at  Peter,  who  said,  quickly: 
"  It  was  only  an  idea  that  came  into  my  head,  don't 
you  see?  I  know  now  that  it  was  a  crazy  one.  But 
a  husband,  supposed  to  be  dead,  and  turning  up 
unexpectedly,  at  the  wrong  time "  He  hesi- 
tated, and  Louis  Hood  finished  for  him. 

"Would  have  been  a  strong  motive  for  me  to  have 
put  him  out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  calmly. 

"Yes."  Peter's  tone  was  one  of  deep  regret  of  his 
momentary  suspicion.  "And  there  was  the  jiu- 
jitsu  business.  At  first,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
but  that,  to  account  for  the  man's  injuries.  You  see 
he  might  have  been  killed  and,  given  a  tall  and  very 
strong  man,  it  was  just  inside  the  limit  of  possibility 
that  the  body  could  have  been  thrown  that  far  out  on 
the  terrace.  It  seemed  so  much  the  only  possibility, 
at  first,  that  I  even  suspected  your  butler,  Harry. 
He's  unusually  tall  for  a  Jap,  and  you  told  me  your- 
self that  he  was  up  to  all  the  jiu-jitsu  tricks.  Walter 
Brown,  according  to  Mr.  Hood,  had  been  in  some  sort 
of  trouble  with  the  natives  in  Japan.  You  see  how 
long  the  cast  was.  And  then,  you  told  me  that  both 
you  and  Hood  had  taken  lessons  from  Hoki,  and 

"You  didn't  suspect  me,  did  you,  Peter?"  asked 
Carlisle,  with  a  slight  grin. 


226  Q.  E.  D. 

"Might  have,  if  you  hadn't  been  with  me  all  that 
afternoon  and  evening,"  replied  Peter,  smiling 
grimly.  "Such  is  my  confounded  nature.  I'd  give 
George  Washington  and  Abraham  Lincoln  the  once 
over,  if  they  could  be  shown  to  have  been  near  the 
spot,  or  could  have  had  a  possible  motive.  Not  that 
it  really  amounts  to  a  suspicion,  you  understand. 
It's  just  a  matter  of  not  passing  any  possibility  up  till 
you  get  the  right  dope." 

"So  Walter  Brown  was  Sylvia's  brother,"  mused 
Carlisle.  "The  black  sheep  who  disappeared  before 
I  knew  her.  ...  It  was  like  you,  Louis,  to 
think  of  her  and  for  her  and  protect  her  in  every 
way."  His  pleasant  voice  was  a  trifle  husky,  as  he 
glanced  up  at  the  black  sky.  "If  she  ever 
knows " 

"There's  no  reason  why  she  should  ever  know," 
interrupted  Hood,  hastily.  "It  would  do  no  good. 
He  died,  to  her,  a  long  time  ago,  and  there's  no  point 
in  opening  old  wounds.  I  went  in  Friday  morning 
to  see  her — to  assure  her  that  there  was  no  danger 
for  me,  and  I've  talked  with  her,  over  the  'phone, 
several  times  since.  I  told  her  that  it  was  only  a 
tragic  and  unfortunate  accident  that  the  newspapers 
were  making  political  capital  of,  and  I'm  sure  she's 
quite  satisfied  with  my  explanation." 

"Have  you  seen  to-night's  papers?"  asked  Peter, 
quickly.  "There's  a  picture  of  Walter  Brown  in 
most  of  them,  and  a  good  likeness,  too,  considering." 


"THE  NAME  IS '  227 

"Oh,  good  God!"  said  Hood,  bitterly,  "Couldn't 
they  let  the  poor  boy  rest  in  peace,  at  last  ?  He  was 
through  with  the  world  when  he  came  to  me,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  been  glad  of  his 
release.  Why  is  it  necessary —  He  broke  off, 

and  covered  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"If  Sylvia  recognizes  the  portrait,"  said  Carlisle, 

softly,  "she'll  know  why  you — she'll  appreciate " 

He  looked  across  at  Clancy.  "I  told  you,  Peter,  that 
Louis  was  the  best  man — that  he  deserved  to  win 
her."  He  touched  Hood  on  the  shoulder.  "Brace 
up,  old  man,"  he  continued,  gently.  "She'll  take  it 
standing,  and  it's  best  she  should  know  the  truth." 

The  lights  of  Morrisville  shone,  close  at  hand, 
upon  the  dark  bosom  of  the  night.  There  was  a 
short  silence  as  they  rolled  swiftly  through  the 
almost  empty  streets.  It  remained  unbroken  until 
they  drew  up  before  the  green  light  of  Police  Head- 
quarters. 

Together  the  three  young  men  sought  and  found 
Inspector  Winkle.  He  was  pacing  up  and  down 
the  bare  room  impatiently,  his  hard  blue  cap  on  his 
head  and  his  fat,  thick  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back. 

"What's  this  I  hear,  young  feller?" 

The  inspector  stopped  short  at  sight  of  Peter 
Clancy. 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  he  repeated,  with  curt  in- 
credulity. "They  say  you've  got  the  whole  case 


228  Q.  E.  D. 

piped.  Of  course,  it's  damned  nonsense!  How 
could  you " 

"Well,  anyway,  I  have,  Inspector,"  interrupted 
Peter,  crisply,  and  with  such  an  air  of  conviction 
that  the  old  man's  glance  took  on  an  extra  degree 
of  sharpness.  "I  know  why  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted, how  it  was  committed,  and  whom  it  was 
committed  by.  All  I  want  of  you  is  to  come  and 
help  me  get  the  guilty  party,  and  some  little  bunch 
of  glory  for  yourself,  by  the  same  token." 

The  inspector's  glance  softened  just  perceptibly. 
"You  seem  mighty  cock-sure,  young  man,"  he  said, 
grudgingly.  "If  you  lead  me  off  on  a  wild-goose 
chase- 

"  There's  no  wild  goose  in  it,  though  it  may  be  a 
helluf  a  chase,  at  that,"  said  Peter,  quickly.  "And 
there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  our  bird  (who's  anything  but  a  goose,  you  can 
bet  your  life)  will  get  wise  to  something  any  minute, 
and  the  sooner  we  sprinkle  salt  on  his  tail  the  better. 
As  it  is,  we  have  lost  him  completely,  for  the  time 
being,  though  we  know  where  he  started  from,  and 
we  think  we  know  where  he'll  show  up  next.  Have 
you  got  the  warrant  ready?" 

"Yes,"  said  Inspector  Winkle,  slowly  taking  fire 
from  Peter's  hurried  words.  "It's  all  ready,  except 
for  the  man's  name.  Mr.  Hood  said  he  couldn't 
give  it  to  me  over  the  'phone;  that  you'd  told  him  not 
to." 


"THE  NAME  IS "  229 

"No,"  said  Peter,  briefly.  He  did  not  wish  to  let 
the  inspector  know  that  he  was  afraid  Winkle  might, 
to  use  his  own  words,  "ball  things  up"  without  him; 
that  he  might,  perhaps,  proceed  by  himself.  "It's 
not  good  medicine  to  say  too  much  over  the  'phone," 
he  explained.  "You  never  can  tell  who  might  be 
listening  in." 

"I  understand  all  that,"  said  the  inspector,  im- 
patiently tapping  his  desk.  "  But  come  across  with 
it  now.  If  you  really  know,"  he  added,  tauntingly.* 

Without  a  glance  at  Inspector  Winkle,  Peter  picked 
up  a  folded  paper  from  the  desk,  and  opening  it,  ran 
his  eye  over  the  contents. 

He  nodded  his  head  slowly  and  laid  the  open 
paper  again  upon  the  desk.  He  pointed  with  his 
finger  to  a  blank  space. 

"Write  it  yourself,  Inspector,  for  the  greater 
glory "  he  said. 

The  inspector  seated  himself  at  the  desk,  dipped  a 
pen  in  the  ink,  and  looked  up  at  Clancy's  cheerfully 
freckled  young  face  with  a  curiosity  which  he  could 
not  dissemble. 

"The  name,"  said  Peter,  quietly,  after  a  short 
pause,  "the  name  is — Robert  Kent." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  STORM  GATHERS 

T~*\ARK  night,  hot  and  black,  with  a  breathless 
•*-^  suspense  in  the  still  air,  as  of  some  terrific 
force  imminent  and  menacing,  yet  held  in  check 
by  a  restrained  and  quiet  fury  greater  than  its 
own. 

Unheeding  the  threat  of  storm,  a  long,  low  car 
sped  swiftly  eastward  with  a  resistless  rush  that  never 
wavered  nor  slackened,  save  when  the  lights  of  a 
town  ran  by  in  smooth  and  companionable  sequence, 
when  its  pace  slowed,  for  a  space,  until  the  open 
country  was  gained  once  more,  and  on  it  went,  look- 
ing far  ahead  with  its  great  burning  eyes,  into  the 
blackness  of  the  night. 

Inside  the  car  four  men  sat,  drawn  close  together 
by  the  tense  interest  of  the  problem  which  was  being 
expounded  to  them  by  one  of  their  number.  Carlisle, 
who  was  driving,  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  road, 
but  he  listened  as  intently  as  the  rest.  Louis  Hood 
sat  beside  him,  half  turned  upon  the  cushions,  while 
Inspector  Winkle  and  Clancy  leaned  forward  from 
the  rear  seat,  so  that  Clancy's  words  were  distinctly 
audible  to  all  above  the  sound  of  the  motor. 

230 


THE  STORM  GATHERS  231 

"That's  what  she  says,"  said  Clancy,  finishing  an 
account  of  his  two  interviews  with  Viola  Gale,  "  and 
in  view  of  the  circumstances,  I  believe  she's  telling 
the  exact  truth.  Whether  or  not  we  can  bring  her  to 
confess  in  court  that  it  was  Robert  Kent  who  took  her 
to  Fern  Hills  that  night  remains  to  be  seen.  It 
would  be  the  simplest  way  for  us,  but  we  can  get  a 
conviction  without  her,  I'm  sure.  However,  we'll 
hope  for  the  best.  It'll  depend  largely  on  how  much 
she  really  cares  for  him.  I  couldn't  quite  make 

out She's    a    real    sporting   little    proposition, 

and  I  find  Kent  has  been  backing  her  in  this  big 
movie  they're  staging  at  New  Rochambeau.  She 
may  stand  pat — and  then  the  evidence  will  be  mostly 
circumstantial.  In  which  case,  we  will  at  least  be 
able  to  clear  the  public  mind  of  all  suspicion  of  you, 
Hood,  even  if  we  can't  send  the  damned  scoundrel 
to  the  chair." 

"Then  I  hope  it  will  come  out  that  way,"  said 
Hood,  gravely. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Peter,  hotly.  "Do  you 
realize  that  Kent  planned  your  death  in  cold  blood  ? 
He  had  no  idea  that  Walter  Brown  was  in  existence. 
He'd  taken  precious  good  care,  by  getting  your 
servants  out  of  the  way,  to  leave  you  alone  in  the 
house,  so  there'd  be  no  possibility  of  getting  the 
wrong  man.  He  had  planned  it  to  the  last  detail. 
He'd  lived  in  your  house,  hadn't  he? — and  knew 
every  inch  of  the  grounds.  I'll  bet  your  present 


232  Q.  E.  D. 

caretakers  were  left  in  the  house  when  you  rented  it 
to  Kent's  sister.     Am  I  right?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hood,  "John  and  Eliza  stayed  with 
them  while  we  were  abroad." 

"So  he  probably  knew  enough  about  them  to  be 
aware  of  the  fact  that  their  daughter  was  playing  in 
The  Wishing  Stile'?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hood  at  once.  "Yes.  I  happen  to 
know  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  that." 

"He  would  have  been  sure,  then,  of  just  what 
they'd  do  when  they  got  the  tickets." 

"Unquestionably." 

"All  right,  then.    The  coast  was  clear,  as  far  as  he 
knew.     He'd  found  out,  some  days  ago,  about  our 
proposed  fishing  trip,  and  that  you  were  to  have 
dinner  with  Harry." 
""\Hood  nodded,  and  said: 

"Yes.  I  saw  him  Monday — and  he  suggested  that 
he'd  like  to  go  along." 

"Right  again.  Then  he  fixed  it  so  Harry  would 
invite  him  to  his  house.  Dinner  was  at  seven. 
Therefore,  he  knew  that  you'd  leave  your  house  a  few 
minutes  before.  You  told  him  what  your  plan  was — 
to  stop  at  your  house,  change  to  your  fishing  clothes, 
get  your  tackle,  and  walk  over  to  Hood's  to  dinner. 
You  told  Kent  all  that,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  Hood  admitted.  "In  fact,  he  asked  me 
quite  a  lot  of  questions :  about  where  he  should  meet 
me,  and  so  forth.  Thought  we  might  go  out  on  the 


THE  STORM  GATHERS  233 

train  together.     Afterwards,  he  'phoned  me  he'd  de- 
cided to  drive  out  in  his  own  car." 

"You  see  how  it  all  fits  in,"  said  Peter.  "How 
exactly  he  knew  what  your  movements  were  ex- 
pected to  be.  What  train  you  would  take.  Where 
you'd  be  almost  any  given  minute.  And  then, 
Walter  Brown  steps  in — and  all  his  calculations  went 
to  the  winds.  Though  he  didn't  know  it  till  after- 
ward." 

"But,  Peter,"  objected  Carlisle,  "he  was  at  my 
house  at  seven,  or  a  very  little  after." 

"A  very  little  after  is  right,  son,"  said  Peter, 
definitely.  "It  wasn't  but  a  few  minutes  after,  I 
admit,  but  a  fast  car  can  hit  it  up,  and  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  did  go  over  to  Lounsberry,  after  he'd 
pulled  the  trick,  and  turned  up  at  your  house  early 
enough  so  that  no  one  noticed,  particularly,  that  he 
was  late.  He  had  to  change  after  dinner,  you  re- 
member, but  we  naturally  thought  that  he  was  too 
conventional  to  want  to  dine,  as  we  did,  in  our  old 
clothes.  In  reality,  he  couldn't  have  gotten  to  your 
house  in  time.  He  had  other  fish  to  fry." 

"God!"   groaned    Carlisle.     "To   think   that   we 
should  have  sat  at  the  table  with — and  Mother — 
Damn  him,  I  think  I  hate  him  worse  for  that,  almost, 
than  anything  else !" 

"But,  say,"  broke  in  Inspector  Winkle,  whose 
heavy  body  was  bouncing  about  uncomfortably, 
owing  to  his  position  of  strained  attention,  "I  don't 


234  Q.  E.  D. 

see  that  you're  making  out  such  a  hell  of  a  case 
against  Kent,  so  far,  young  feller.  Maybe  he  did 
know  all  you  say,  but  what  of  it?  What  would  be 
his  motive?" 

"He's  terribly  in  debt,  for  one  thing,"  replied 
Peter,  calmly.  "O'Malley  found  that  out  and  a  lot 
of  other  things  for  me.  Kent's  a  born  gambler  and 
has  lost  heavily  lately — thousands  and  thousands — 
enough  to  make  you  and  me  nervous  just  to  think 
about  it.  He  went  with  a  pretty  swift  and  expensive 
bunch  and  was  a  game  loser,  but  I  guess,  even  at 
that,  they  got  his  goat  finally.  .  .  .  And  then 
there's  that  movie  venture  on  top  of  all.  That's 
run  into  money,  and  then  some !  He's  already  in  for 
fifty  thousand,  and  not  a  chance  to  get  a  sou  marque 
out  of  it  for  months.  He's  strained  his  credit  to  the 
limit  in  the  hope  that  it  would  go  big,  as  it  probably 
will,  with  Viola  Gale  as  the  star.  .  .  .  If  he 
could  only  have  held  out,  don't  you  see?  That's 
the  point.  He  had  to  have  money,  and  damned 
quick  at  that!  He's  borrowed  from  everybody  in 
sight.  How  about  it,  Harry?  Didn't  he  get  some- 
thing out  of  you?" 

"Well,  yes,"  admitted!  Carlisle,  with  a  shrug. 
"I  suppose  it  may  have  been  for  this  motion-picture 
thing,  though  he  didn't  say  so.  He  put  up  a  long 
story  about — well,  it  was  a  long  story  and  a  good  one, 
he  got  the  money  he  was  after." 
To  save  a  big  block  of  stock  he'd  bought  on 


THE  STORM  GATHERS  235 

margin?"  asked  Hood.  "That  was  the  story  he  told 
me." 

Peter  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Oh,  he  touched  you,  too,  Hood,  did  he?  I 
thought  as  much.  Gave  you  notes,  perhaps?" 

Hood  nodded. 

"And  they  were  due- ?" 

"Next  week." 

"You  see,"  said  Peter.  "God  knows  how  many 
more  were  falling  due  about  the  same  time.  O'Mal- 
ley  traced  up  some,  and  probably  would  have  located 
more  if  he'd  had  the  time.  Kent  owes  all  his  credit 
would  stand  at  the  bank,  and  they're  beginning  to  get 
very  nervous.  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  He 
had  to  have  money." 

"  But,  I  don't  see "  began  the  inspector.    .    .    . 

"Why  he  picked  on  Hood  when  Hood  was  only 
one  of  a  lot  of  creditors?"  Peter  interpreted  Winkle's 
thought.  "Well,  there  were  a  bunch  of  reasons. 
In  the  first  place,  and  going  pretty  strong,  was  the 
fact  that  he  didn't  love  Mr.  Hood — not  any! 
They've  followed,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  same  lines, 
and  Mr.  Hood  has  beaten  him,  hands  down,  at  every 
turn.  That's  right,  Harry,  isn't  it?  I  got  it  from 
you." 

"Sure  thing,"  answered  Carlisle,  briefly. 

"Kent's  being  talked  of  as  a  possible  candidate  for 
district  attorney  in  the  fall,"  Peter  proceeded,  "but 
so  is  Mr.  Hood,  and  what  chance  did  Kent  have 


236  Q.  E.  D. 

against  him,  do  you  think?  And  that  isn't  the  only 
way  they're  rivals,  as  you  might  say.  I  don't  know 
when  it  began — 

"Oh,  long  ago,"  said  Louis  Hood,  wearily,  bitterly. 
"I  don't  know  how  it  came  about,  exactly.  .  .  . 

We  were  classmates  in  college,   and  somehow 

Well,  everything  seemed  to  come  my  way.  I  was 
much  stronger,  physically,  than  he,  and  always  made 
the  college  teams  when  I  wanted  to.  .  .  .  He 
tried  hard,  but  the  only  time  he  ever  came  anywhere 
near,  he  was  ruled  out  on  a  foul.  It  was  unlucky  for 
me  that  I  happened  not  to  be  playing  that  day  and 
was  acting  as  umpire.  I  remember  it  only  too  well. 
It  was  only  a  practice  game  .  .  .  but  he  came 
to  me  afterward,  and — there  was  a  scene  that  I'd  be 
glad  to  forget."  He  paused,  and  added  heavily: 
"He  told  me  then  that  he'd  get  me  some  day— 

"Yes,"  objected  Winkle,  "but  that  was  so  long 

» 
ago 

"Humph,"  grunted  Peter.  "Well,  the  fight  to  be 
district  attorney  isn't  so  long  ago.  That's  present— 
and  future.  .  .  .  And  then  .  .  .  more  than 
that,  if  you  must  know,  they're  both  in  love  with  the 
same  young  lady.  (You'll  excuse  my  mentioning 
it,  Mr.  Hood.  It's  necessary  to  make  the  situation 
complete.)  I  said,"  he  turned  back  to  the  in- 
spector, "that  they're  both  in  love  with  her,  but 
I'm  not  so  sure  of  Kent.  There  was  another  reason 
for  his  wanting  to  marry  her.  You  must  remember 


THE  STORM  GATHERS  237 

his  desperate  need  of  money — and  the  young  lady,  as 
it  happens,  has  oodles  of  it  in  her  own  right.  There 
was  no  one  else  in  the  running  but  Mr.  Hood,  and 
with  him  out  of  the  way —  Peter  shrugged  his 

shoulders  and  spread  out  his  hands,  leaving  the 
conclusion  to  Inspector  Winkle's  keen  powers  of 
deduction. 

The  old  man  nodded  grudgingly. 

"All  right,  so  far,"  he  said,  "but- 

"You  want  more?"  asked  Peter,  grinning.  "Well, 
there's  another  little  item  to  add  to  the  list,  and 
when  you've  done  that,  I  think  you'll  admit  that  the 
total  is  pretty  nearly  sufficient,  with  a  man  like  Kent, 
even  for  such  a  beastly  crime.  Just  make  a  note 
of  the  items  on  your  cuff.  They  were  rivals,  bitter 
rivals  from  boyhood,  though  I  guess  most  of 
the  bitterness  was  on  Kent's  side.  Kent  hated  Mr. 
Hood  because  Hood  beat  him  every  way  from  the 
beginning.  Kent  knew  that  he  was  likely  to  beat 
him  in  his  political  ambitions,  and  almost  sure  to  in 
his — er — matrimonial — if  Hood  wasn't,  somehow, 
put  out  of  the  race.  .  .  .  Then  there  was  the 
pressing  need  for  money —  He  might,  after  all, 
fail  to  win  the  young  lady  and  her  fortune,  but— 
Peter  paused.  "But  there  was  a  big  trump  up  his 
sleeve — and  you  add  this  to  the  rest,  Inspector,  and 
see  what  you  get." 

Another   pause.     Winkle   leaned    forward    expec- 
tantly. 


238  Q.  E.  D. 

"Richard  Kent  and  Louis  Hood  are  cousins," 
Peter  went,  on  impressively.  "Only  distant  cousins, 
at  that,  but,  now  mark  this  down— at  the  present 
moment,  Kent  happens  to  be  next  of  kin.  That 
information  is  correct,  isn't  it,  Hood?" 

Louis  Hood  nodded,  and  the  inspector  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

"Now  I  suspect,  in  the  circumstances,"  Peter 
addressed  himself  to  Louis  Hood,  "that  you  were 
waiting  to  make  a  will  until — well,  until  the  matter 
of  your  marriage  was  settled  one  way  or  the  other — 
that  if  you  had  previously  made  a  will,  your  mother 
was  the  chief  beneficiary — that  your  mother,  having 
died,  made  the  will  of  no  effect — and  that  Robert 
Kent  was  on  to  all  these  facts."  He  peered  closely 
into  the  face  before  him. 

Hood  hesitated  slightly. 

"It  is  a  natural  inference,  and  happens  to  be  true 
as  far  as  my  own  part  is  concerned.  As  to  Kent — 
I've  been  wondering.  .  .  .  He  knows  my  per- 
sonal stenographer,  my  secretary,  you  might  call  her. 

.  .  How  well,  I  can't  be  quite  sure,  but  I  rather 
thought,  lately,  perhaps  very  well  indeed. 

"Then  you  have  thought  of  Kent,"  interjected 
Peter.  "I  wondered  if  you  might  not  have  suspected 
him- 

"The  thought  crossed  my  mind,"  admitted  Hood, 
"but  I  put  it  away  from  me.  You  see  I  knew  the 
facts  you've  just  brought  out — could  imagine  a 


THE  STORM  GATHERS  239 

motive,  possibly — if  the  circumstances  had  been 
different.  It's  been  a  terrible  puzzle.  If  I  had  been 
killed  instead  of  poor  Walter.  .  .  ." 

"But,  unquestionably,  you  were  to  have  been  the 
victim,"  insisted  Peter. 

"You  certainly  make  it  appear  so,"  said  Louis 
Hood,  slowly.  "Yes,  in  view  of  all  the  facts,  I  think 
there  can  be  no  shadow  of  doubt." 

"And  you  think,  with  me,  that  Kent's  prime 
motive  was  that  he  wanted  your  money,  which,  in  the 
present  circumstances,  he  was  bound  to  inherit,"  per- 
sisted Peter. 

"Yes,"  answered  Hood,  reluctantly.  "I  think  it 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  the  case.  Mrs.  Fayle,  being 
only  his  half  sister,  is  no  blood  connection  of  mine. 
He's  the  nearest  relative  I  have  in  the  world.  That's 
the  reason  why  I  can't  help  hoping,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing—  We're  of  the  same  blood,  after  all." 

"Good  Lord,  I   don't  see  that  it   matters!"  ex- 
claimed Harry,  furiously.     "We're  all  of  the  same 
blood,  if  you  go  back  to  Adam.     But  when  I  think 
of   his    sitting    at  the  table  with  my  mother — 
Words  failed  him. 

"Well,  that's  a  good  layout  of  motives,  as  far  as 
that  goes,"  persisted  the  inspector,  "but  how  in  hell 
was  the  job  pulled  off?  That's  what  I  want  to  know. 
If  the  body  wasn't  dropped  from  an  aeroplane — 

Peter  grinned  to  himself  in  the  darkness,  but 
answered  seriously,  "That  was  a  clever  theory  of 


240  Q.  E.  D. 

yours,  Inspector,  but  it  doesn't  happen  to  fit  this 
case." 

"How  can  you  be  so  cock-sure,  Clancy?"  objected 
Winkle,  irritably.  The  road  over  which  they  were 
passing  was  under  repair  and  this  fact  did  not  add  to 
the  inspector's  comfort. 

"Because,"  replied  Peter,  quietly,  "the  evidence 
doesn't  point  that  way.  And  besides,  I  know,  as  I 
told  you,  just  how  the  murder  was  committed,  and  I 
can  produce  the  weapon." 

"The  weapon!"  ejaculated  the  inspector.  "Why, 
aside  from  Brown's  pistol,  the  only  weapon  there 
was,  I  found  myself." 

"Hm-m,  yes,"  said  Peter,  "Mr.  Hood's  knife,  you 
mean.  Well,  that  was  thrown  there  by  the  murderer, 
to  make  it  look  like  suicide.  You  see  he  supposed 
that  the  body  was  that  of  Mr.  Hood.  Kent  knew 
damned  well  that  there  would  be  no  trace  of  a 
struggle,  no  other  weapon — nothing.  He  didn't 
expect  that  the  victim's  neck  would  be  broken.  All 
he  counted  on  was  a  deep  cut — enough,  probably,  to 
kill  him,  since  he  knew  Mr.  Hood  would  be  wearing 
a  low,  soft  collar  which  would  afford  little  or  no 
protection.  If  Hood  had  been  found  dead  on  his 
own  doorstep,  with  a  deep  wound  in  his  throat,  and  a 
long,  sharp,  open  knife  marked  with  his  own  initials 
had  been  found  within  any  reasonable  distance  of  the 
body — who  would  have  had  any  other  suspicion  than 
that  he  had  taken  his  own  life?" 


THE  STORM  GATHERS  241 

Harrison  Carlisle  shuddered  as  he  bent  low  over 
the  wheel  watching  the  road  ahead,  as  it  dropped 
away  in  long,  steep  curves  toward  the  lamp-spangled 
blackness  of  the  North  River. 

"Horrible!  horrible!"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
his  foot  mechanically  increasing  the  pressure  of  the 
brakes.  "Good  old  Louis " 

Peter  could  see  the  dim  outline  of  Hood's  face 
against  the  reflected  light  from  the  great  lamps  of 
the  car.  It  was  stern  and  quiet,  and  he  said  no  word. 

Winkle  spoke  again,  in  the  heavy  darkness  of  the 
car.  His  voice  was  as  unmusical  and  persistent  as  a 
buzzing  gnat. 

"Very  good,  then,"  he  said,  "if  the  knife  don't 
mean  any  more  than  that,  suppose  you  tell  us  about 
this  weapon  you  say  you  can  produce,  though  where 
in  hell  you  found  it  is  more  than  I  can  imagine." 

"I  guess  that's  the  truth,"  said  Peter.  "I  don't 
believe  many  people  could  imagine  where  I  found  it." 

"Well,  for  Heaven's  sake  where  was  it?"  asked  the 
inspector,  impatiently. 

"In  Robert  Kent's  tackle  bag,"  replied  Peter, 
quietly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE" 

T)Y  ALL  that's  holy,  you  can't  mean  that, 
-*^  Peter!"  exclaimed  Carlisle. 

They  were  within  sight  of  the  ferry,  and  taking 
his  place  in  the  intermittently  moving  line  of  waiting 
cars  and  trucks,  he  swung  half  round  on  the  seat  to 
look  Clancy  in  the  face. 

"In  Rob's  tackle  box!"  he  repeated,  wonderingly. 
"Why,  there  was  nothing  in  the  box  but  the  regular 
stuff — hooks,  flies,  spoons,  reels,  leaders,  and  such 
things.  I  don't  remember  seeing  a  knife  of  any 
kind." 

"No,  there  wasn't  any  knife,"  said  Peter,  "and  yet, 
the  weapon  with  which  the  murder  was  committed 
was  there — and  I  took  it  away  with  me,  in  my 
pocket." 

The  line  of  trucks  moved  slowly  forward  and 
Carlisle  kept  his  place,  moving  slowly  forward  with 
them. 

"It  was  your  mother's  bunch  of  keys  that  did  the 
trick,"  continued  Peter,  in  a  low  voice.  "  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  her  it's  probable  that  I  never  would  have 
suspected  Kent,  though  I  knew,  last  night,  just  how 

242 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        243 

the  trick  was  pulled.  The  evidence  of  what  means 
had  been  used  was  so  carefully  concealed  that  Kent 
could  have  had  no  fear  of  leaving  it  in  a  locked  box  in 
your  house,  especially  as  he  had  reason  to  think  that 
I  had  no  connection  with  the  case  and  was  following 
him  into  town  by  the  next  train.  It  was  about  the 
safest  place  he  could  leave  it  until  he  had  a  chance  to 
destroy  it." 

Peter  craned  his  head  through  the  open  window 
of  the  car  and  looked  longingly  toward  the  rapidly 
filling  ferry  boat. 

"Afraid  we're  not  going  to  make  this  trip,"  he  said, 
anxiously,  "and  Kent's  almost  sure  to  have  dis- 
covered already.  He  got  to  Fern  Hills  at  six, 
to-night,  you  said,  Harry,  and  left  there  around  half- 
past?  It's  nearly  nine  now.  He's  had  a  lot  of  time. 
It  wouldn't  take  him  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half 
to  drive  in.  That  would  get  him  to  his  apartment 
around  eight." 

"Yes,"  said  Carlisle.  "He  told  Mother  that  he 
would  get  home  in  time  for  dinner,  and  would  rather 
drive  in  before  it  got  too  dark.  He  apologized  all 
over  the  place  for  leaving  his  things  there,  and  for  not 
stopping,  and  took  his  traps  and  his  car,  and  left. 
I  didn't  come  in  till  just  after  he'd  gone." 

"Did  Mrs.  Carlisle  tell  him  that  we'd  opened  his 
tackle  box?"  asked  Peter,  quickly. 

"Yes,  she  would,  of  course,"  replied  Carlisle, 
uneasily.  "She  explained  about  my  lot  of  rotten  lead- 


244  Q-  E«  D. 

ers.    She  had  no  idea —        Does  it   matter  much, 
Peter  ?     Will  he  know " 

"The  minute  he  got  a  chance  to  open  his  tackle 
box,  he  must  have  guessed."  Peter  bit  his  lip  and 
again  glanced  toward  the  ferry  entrance.  "We're 
not  going  to  make  this  trip,  that's  sure.  Damn  it!" 
he  said.  "But  never  mind,  Harry,  O'Malley's  on 
the  job  and  he'll  take  care  of  it  as  well  as  I  could,  or 
better."  He  turned  to  include  Hood  and  the 
inspector.  "My  partner,  O'Malley,  is  watching 
Kent's  apartment  himself,"  he  explained,  "and  he 
sent  a  man  around  to  all  the  garages  in  the  neighbour- 
hood to  find  out  where  Kent  keeps  his  car.  The  man 
will  watch  there,  and  let  us  know.  By  George,  I 
think  we're  going  to  make  this  boat,  after  all !  Hey, 
you,  there!"  Peter  called,  and  leaping  from  the 
car  dashed  over  to  the  man  who  was  directing  the 
position  of  the  vans  and  trucks  on  the  deck  of  the 
ferry  boat. 

"How  many  more  can  you  get  on,  old  scout?" 
he  called,  cheerfully. 

"Three  more,  and  that's  the  limit,"  was  the  laconic 
reply. 

Peter  turned  and  counted  back.  "One — two — 
three."  The  fourth  vehicle  in  line  was  the  car  of 
Harrison  Carlisle. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  Peter  approached 
the  driver  of  the  third,  which  was  a  large  truck,  laden 
with  barrels.  He  spoke  to  the  man  at  the  wheel,  and 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        245 

after  a  few  quick  sentences  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  drew  out  a  roll  of  bills,  peeled  off  several, 
slipped  them  into  the  man's  hand,  and  ran  back  to  his 
friends. 

"Shoot  ahead  of  this  next  truck,  Harrison,"  he 
said,  breathlessly,  jumping  to  the  running  board. 
"It'sO.  K." 

"Hey!  Get  back  on  the  line,  there,  you!" 
shouted  the  man  on  the  deck,  angrily,  as  the  car 
swung  forward. 

"It's  all  right,  Bo,"  called  the  truck  driver,  "I 
give  him  my  place.  Get  ahead,  you  blokes,  and 
don't  take  none  o'  his  lip,"  he  added,  cordially,  to 
Peter. 

Carlisle's  car  rolled  gently  over  the  planks  which 
joined  the  ferry  boat  to  the  slip,  the  clashing  chain 
was  drawn  across  the  deck,  the  planks  were  hauled 
away,  and  slowly  the  great  lumbering  boat  steamed 
out  into  the  darkness  of  the  gently  heaving  river. 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  said  Peter,  as  he  slipped 
back  into  his  place  and  closed  the  car  door.  "Saves 
us  twenty  minutes,  and  that  may  mean  all  the 
difference." 

The  inspector's  brows  were  wrinkled  in  puzzled 
thought. 

"Look  here,  Clancy,"  he  said,  grasping  Peter's  arm 
and  shaking  it  a  little  in  his  impatience,  "I've  been 
racking  my  brain,  and  I  can't  think —  What  the 
devil  kind  of  a  weapon  was  it  ?  And  how— 


246  Q.  E.  D. 

"Yes,  Peter,  what  was  it?"  echoed  Harrison,  turn- 
ing on  the  front  seat.  And  his  mind,  delivered  from 
the  exigencies  of  the  road,  bent  its  whole  force  on  the 
question  in  hand. 

"I'm  entirely  in  the  dark,  still,"  said  Louis  Hood, 
shaking  his  head.  "Are  you  ready  to  tell  us,  Clancy  ? 
If  you  are,  it  would  be  a  great  relief."  He  took  off  his 
soft  felt  hat,  and  with  a  characteristic  gesture  passed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  thick,  dark  hair. 

"I'm  ready  to  tell  you  the  whole  story,  Hood," 
said  Peter,  quietly.  "The  case  is  complete,  in  my 
mind.  The  inspector  will  have  to  hear  it,  anyway, 

and  Harry  has  been  in  it  from  the  beginning — so " 

He  paused  and  looked  out  over  the  river. 

They  were  at  the  very  rear  of  the  boat,  and  the 
swish  and  swirl  of  the  churning  waters  in  its  wake 
formed  a  liquid  accompaniment  to  the  drum-like 
throb  of  the  engines.  All  the  motors  of  the  trucks 
and  vans  had  been  shut  off,  and  there  was  silence  on 
the  decks  broken  only  by  an  occasional  rough  word 
from  one  truckman  to  another.  There  were  few 
passengers  crossing  at  this  time  of  night,  and  the 
rear  passenger  decks,  faintly  lit,  were  empty. 

Beyond  the  slowly,  resistlessly  moving  boat,  the 
broad,  black  waters  of  the  noble  river  rose  and  fell 
with  an  almost  imperceptible  motion.  Along  the 
western  shore  the  receding  points  of  light  which 
marked  the  ferry  landing  grew  smaller  and  smaller  in 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        247 

the  distance,  while  the  necklace  of  pale  lamps  at  the 
top  of  the  Palisades  seemed  suspended  in  mid  air. 
Above,  black,  sullen  clouds  rolled  in,  unseen. 

"So,"  continued  Peter,  after  a  breath,  "I'll  tell 
you  the  whole  story  of  what  happened  Thursday 
night,  and  you  can  see  for  yourselves  if  there  are  any 
holes  in  the  case.  This  is  a  hell  of  a  long  ferry  and 
I'll  have  plenty  of  time." 

He  shifted  his  position  to  bring  his  head  closer  to 
those  in  the  front  seat,  and  spoke  in  a  low,  guarded 
voice. 

"It  was  your  caretaker,  John,  who  put  the  match 
to  the  fuse,  Hood,"  he  began.  "I  think  some 
possibility  of  such  an  explanation  had  been  beating 
around  in  my  old  bean,  but  it  didn't  come  through 
until  old  John  told  us  about  his  banshee.  Do  you 
remember?" 

"Yes."  Hood  leaned  still  farther  forward,  looking 
at  Peter  in  bewilderment. 

"Old  John  told  us,"  explained  Peter,  to  the  in- 
spector, "that  he'd  heard  a  banshee  wailing  around 
Mr.  Hood's  house  all  night,  the  night  before  the 
murder;  that  it  didn't  stop  until  the  wind  died,  at 
dawn.  His  wife  heard  it,  too.  They  couldn't  sleep. 
They'd  never  heard  anything  like  it  before,  though 
they'd  listened  to  many  high  winds  in  the  trees 
around  the  house  on  many  a  windier  night.  He 
described  it  as  a  voice  without  words.  Does  that 
suggest  anything  to  you?'* 


248  Q.  E.  D. 

The  inspector,  who  had  a  good  deal  of  Irish  blood 
in  his  veins,  shivered  a  little,  and  cast  a  quick  look, 
sidewise,  into  the  darkness. 

"I — I  can't  say  that  it  does,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 
"Of  course,  warnings  like  that  are  all  nonsense.  But 
it  was  queer,  wasn't  it?  What  do  you  make  of  it, 
Clancy?  Was  it  imagination,  or — 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  an^Eolian  harp, Inspector?" 
Peter  asked,  quietly. 

"I've  heard  of  the  .ZEolian  Company.  They're  on 
Forty-second  Street,"  said  the1  inspector,  surprised 
at  the  irrelevance  of  Clancy's  question,  but  willing  to 
show  his  urban  knowledge.  "I  know  they  make 
pipe-organs  and  pianolas  and  such  things,  but  I 
never  heard  they  made  harps." 

"Well,  they  don't  make  the  kind  I'm  speaking  of," 
said  Peter,  suppressing  a  grin.  "  It's  something  alto- 
gether different." 

"Made  of  wires  and  hung  up  in  trees,  as  a  rule," 
interjected  Hood,  swiftly,  "but,  Clancy,  why 
should- 

" Another  thing,  Inspector,"  said  Peter,  with  a 
slight  motion  of  his  hand  toward  Louis  Hood,  "did 
you  ever  run  into  a  clothes  line  in  the  dark?" 

Winkle  gazed  at  Peter  as  if  he  thought  the  young 
detective  had  suddenly  taken  leave  of  his  senses,  but 
Carlisle  whirled  clean  around  in  his  seat  and  grabbed 
Peter's  shoulder. 

"Why,  I  did  once,   Peter!"  he  cried,  excitedly. 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        249 

"Don't  you  remember?  It  was  at  school,  and  we 
were  sneaking  in  after  hours.  I  ran  into  it,  full  tilt, 
and  cut  a  big  piece  out  of  the  bridge  of  my  nose. 
I've  got  the  scar  yet.  Good  God!  Do  you 
mean — 

"I  mean,"  said  Peter,  slowly,  "that  the  banshee 
John  heard  was  a  sort  of  ^Eolian  harp,  that  it  played 
only  when  the  wind  was  high,  and  that  it  was  made  of 
two  fine  wires  stretched  tight  from  one  tree  to  another 
across  the  front  of  the  terrace  at  Hood's  house.  The 
marks  on  the  trees  are  plain,  showing  just  where  the 
wire  was  attached,  and  where  it  cut  the  bark  as  it 
ran  across  it.  It  was  so  fine  that  it  could  scarcely 
have  been  seen  in  the  daytime,  and  it  would  have 
been  fairly  impossible  to  have  seen  it  at  dusk.  The 
whole  beastly  plan  was  perfected,  in  every  detail, 
beforehand.  Kent  went  out  Wednesday,  probably 
early  in  the  evening,  and  strung  the  wires.  He 
knew  that  the  caretakers  were  unlikely  to  come 
around  that  part  of  the  house,  when  the  whole  main 
house  was  closed  up  and  empty.  He  set  his  trap  and 
went  back  to  town." 

Peter  paused  and  for  an  instant  there  was  no  sound 
but  the  throb  .of  the  steadily  heaving  engine  and  the 
swirl  of  the  black  water. 

"He  knew  all  of  Hood's  plans,"  Peter  went  on, 
"days  before,  and  could  make  his  calculations 
exactly.  It  was  necessary,  you  see,  for  him  to  have 
an  accomplice.  He  must  insure,  not  only  that  his 


250  Q.  E.  D. 

victim  would  come  down  off  the  terrace  by  the 
middle  steps  leading  to  the  lawn,  where  the  trap  was 
set,  but  that  he  should  come  in  a  hurry.  If  he  had 
been  walking,  and  struck  the  wire,  it  probably 
wouldn't  do  much  damage.  He  must  come  at  top 
speed.  You  see  that,  don't  you?" 

There  was  a  stir  of  acquiescence  in  the  tense 
figures  about  him,  but  no  one  spoke. 

"That's  where  Viola  Gale  came  in,"  said  Peter, 
still  in  the  same  low  tone.  "Kent  knew  Hood's 
character — knew  that  he  was  brave  and  chivalrous — 
knew  that  if  he  heard  a  woman  screaming  in  terror 
that  he'd  beat  it  to  the  place  as  if  all  hell  was  after 
him.  What  he  didn't  know,  and  what  saved  Hood's 
life,  as  sure  as  we're  sitting  here,  was  that  there  was 
another  man  in  the  house,  a  man  of  about  Hood's 
height  and  figure,  a  man  to  whom,  by  a  strange 
coincidence,  the  voice  of  Viola  Gale  was  a  voice  from 
the  past — perhaps  not  fully  recognized — who  can 
tell?  But  a  voice  which  made  an  irresistible  appeal 
— as  we  know." 

Again  Peter  stopped.  The  inspector's  deep  rough 
breathing  sounded  heavily  in  the  silence  as  he 
mentally  laboured  in  the  wake  of  the  quicker  mind. 

"I'm  certain,"  continued  Peter,  "that  it  will  be 
proved  that  Viola  Gale  was  completely  taken  in  by 
Kent's  hoax  and  was  entirely  innocent  of  any  real 
complicity.  It  was  just  a  sporting  proposition  to 
her.  She  was  under  obligations  to  Kent,  on  account 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        251 

of  the  movie  venture  they  were  in  together  and  was 
probably  glad  to  do  something  to  please  him.  She 
thought  it  was  all  a  lark.  She's  that  kind,  as  I 
size  her  up.  He  probably  explained  his  leaving  her 
at  the  station  to  go  back  to  town  alone,  by  saying 
that  he  had  a  dinner  engagement  with  the  sup- 
positional person  who  had  just  settled  the  bet,  and 
who,  she  understood,  lived  in  the  neighbourhood. 
He  did  keep  his  engagement,  almost  on  time,  as  we 
know,  but  it  was  with  you,  Harry,  net  with  the 
sporting  gentleman,  who  never  existed." 

Carlisle  nodded. 

"  But  I  can't  quite  see,"  said  Louis  Hood,  keeping 
his  intent  gaze  fixed  on  Peter's  face,  "the  exact 
sequence  of  events.  Walter  had  said  good-bye," 
he  spoke  slowly,  thinking  back,  "and  was  opening 
the  door,  when  I  switched  off  the  light  and  went  into 
the  north  wing.  Exactly  what  happened  then,  do 
you  think?" 

"I  don't  think,"  replied  Peter,  confidently.  "I 
am  certain  of  what  happened.  You  will  bear  in 
mind  that  Kent  had  his  wires  stretched  the  night 
before.  You  were  expected  to  leave  the  house  a 
little  before  seven.  All  right.  He  and  Viola  Gale 
drove  out  to  your  place  by  back  roads  as  far  as 
possible.  They  got  there  in  plenty  of  time.  They 
both  left  the  car  at  the  southwest  corner  of  your 
ptace,  and  he  pointed  out  where  she  was  to  go,  along- 
side the  south  boundary,  until  she  came  opposite  the 


252  Q.  E.  D. 

house  and  could  see  the  entrance.  Kent  had  de- 
scribed you  to  her,  though  he'd  given  you  a  fictitious 
name.  She  was  to  wait  until  she  saw  you  at  the 
door,  and  then  was  to  scream  in  as  scared  a  way  as 
possible,  to  attract  your  attention.  She  was  an 
actress  and  could  be  depended  on  to  do  the  business 
in  a  convincing  manner.  That  she  did  so  there  is 
one  man  living  who  can  testify — old  Bill  Brown." 

"Bill  Brown?"  asked  Hood,  in  surprise.  "What 
has  he  to  do  with  it?" 

Then  Peter  and  Harrison  Carlisle  explained  their 
meeting  with  the  old  poacher  which  had  proved  so 
momentous  in  its  consequences. 

"I  see,"  said  Hood,  "but  to  go  back — I  want  to 

have  it  quite  clear  in  my  own  mind The 

woman  stood  beyond  the  wall,  at  the  foot  of  the 
lawn,  and  then 

"And  then,"  continued,  Peter,  "Walter  Brown 
came  to  the  door.  It  was  quite  dark  outside,  but 
there  was  a  bright  light  in  your  hall  and  the  top  half 
of  the  door  is  glass.  Viola  Gale  had  a  good  look  at 
Walter  Brown  before  you  switched  off  the  light. 
She  was  too  far  off  to  distinguish  features,  but  he 
answered  well  enough  to  Kent's  description.  He 
was  about  your  build,  unusually  tall,  and  dressed 
much  as  you  would  have  been  in  your  fishing  clothes. 
Kent  didn't  see  him  at  all,  though  he  was  much 
nearer  the  house  than  she.  He  was  stationed  in  the 
shrubbery,  over  by  the  west  end  of  the  terrace,  and 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        253 

those  tall,  pointed  evergreens,  that  grow  along  the 
front,  cut  off  his  view  completely.  But,  he  didn't 
have  to  see,  you  understand?  He  waited  there,  in 
the  dark,  for  her  signal — waited,  with  who  knows 
what  jealousy  and  hatred,  what  thwarted  ambition, 
what  greed  of  your  wealth  in  his  heart.  He  heard 
the  signal — a  frightful  scream  of  terror  from  the 
woman,  down  by  the  road.  Running  feet,  almost 
soundless  on  the  snow — the  thrill  and  quiver  of  the 
taut  wire — a  heavy  fall — and  silence." 

Peter  drew  a  long  breath. 

"The  plan  had  worked.  But,  unknown  to  Kent, 
it  was  Walter  Brown  who  came  through  the  door  and 
started  toward  the  drive,  when  he  was  stopped  by 
that  awful  scream.  Without  an  instant's  hesitation, 
he  turned  and  ran  back  across  the  terrace  toward  the 
spot  where  the  noise  had  come  from.  In  midcareer, 
as  he  sprang  down  the  steps,  that  cruel  wire,  taut  as 
a  bow-string,  caught  him  in  the  throat.  Caught  him 
as  he  jumped,  and  with  such  force  that  the  bones  of 
his  neck  snapped  like  a  dead  branch." 

"My  God!"  groaned  Carlisle  under  his  breath, 
"and  it  might  have  been  Louis,  with  all  his  big  clean 
life  ended — lost!  And  Sylvia 

"After  that,"  Peter  was  saying,  "Kent  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  reel  in  his  line." 

Harrison's  ear  caught  the  familiar  words. 

"Reel  in  his  line,  Peter?     Reel  in 

"Yes,"  Clancy  said,  quietly.     "He  wanted  to  get 


2S4  Q.  E.  D. 

in  the  wires  in  the  quickest  way  possible.  There 
was,  in  fact,  only  one,  continuous  wire,  as  I  can  show 
you.  It  was  hooked  around  a  low  branch  of  that 
pine  tree,  where  we  stood  yesterday  morning,  Harry, 
near  the  west  end  of  the  terrace.  It  was  passed  up 
over  a  limb  high  enough  to  clear  any  man's  head, 
carried  across  to  the  east  end,  thrown  over  another 
high  limb  on  the  tree  opposite,  brought  under  a 
lower  branch  of  the  same  tree,  carried  back  across  the 
terrace,  at  the  exact  height  to  catch  a  six-foot  man, 
either  in  the  face  or  neck,  and  fastened  securely  to  the 
pine  tree  from  which  it  started.  Is  that  clear?" 

Even  the  inspector  was  able  to  follow  the  expla- 
nation. 

"That  wire,"  Peter  went  on,  "was  fastened  to  a 
big,  multiple-action  tarpon  reel.  When  the  end, 
ready  to  his  hand,  was  freed,  Kent  had  only  to  reel 
the  entire  wire  in.  It  took  not  more  than  a  few 
seconds  at  the  most,  though  the  springy  wire 
wouldn't  run  in  as  well  as  an  ordinary  line.  And 
when  he  had  done  that,  practically  every  trace  of  the 
means  he  had  used  had  disappeared.  It  was  damned 
clever!  He'd  even  tied  a  length  of  ordinary  line  on 
the  end  of  the  wire,  enough  to  cover  it  when  the  whole 
thing  was  reeled  in.  It  was  only  chance,  perhaps," 
Peter  spoke,  slowly,  "that  gave  Mrs.  Carlisle  the 
means  to,  and  reason  for,  opening  that  tackle 
box.  .  .  .  Chance  or  luck,  that  I  was  so  much 
interested  in  a  kind  of  reel  I  had  never  seen;  that  in 


"FIRST  CATCH  YOUR  HARE"        255 

handling  that  particular  one  I  spun  the  handle,  as 
one  naturally  does,  and  the  spring  of  the  wire  under- 
neath helped  in  unwinding  the  line  that  covered  it; 
that  I  should  have  found  the  wire  sticky,  with  a 
queer  kind  of  gum,  when  I  was  already  certain  that 
a  wire  had  been  used  and  knew  that  one  end  of  it  had 
been  fastened  to  a  pine  tree.  It  didn't  take  long  to 
put  two  and  two  together,  and  when  I  had  the  whole 
wire  examined  by  the  best  analytic  chemists  in  town, 
and  they  reported  traces  of  human  blood — very 
little,  but  enough  for  them  to  be  sure — no  further 
evidence  was  needed  to  my  mind,  and  I  think  it's 
enough  to  convince  any  jury,  with  what  we'll  be  able 
to  get  out  of  Viola  Gale." 

The  heavy  bump  of  the  ferry  boat  as  it  slid  into  the 
slip  startled  them  all,  so  rilled  had  they  been  with 
the  excitement  of  the  moment. 

"That's  all  very  well — very  clever  and  ingenious, 
Mr.  Peter  Clancy,"  growled  the  inspector  in  Peter's 
ear,  as  all  the  motors  aboard  the  ferry  boat  started  at 
once.  "Your  theory  seems  to  be  sound  as  far  as  any 
one  can  see,  but  you  haven't  got  your  man  yet,  Mr. 
Peter  Clancy,  and  he's  sure  to  be  wise  by  now. 
First  catch  your  hare,  my  lad,"  and  then  with  empha- 
sis, "first — catch — your — hare." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  STORM  BREAKS 

A^  SOON  as  they  were  clear  of  the  press  around 
the  ferry  slip,  Peter,  accompanied  by  the  now 
alert  and  eager  inspector,  sought  the  nearest  telephone 
booth,  and  called  the  night  clerk  in  his  own  office. 

He  found  that  O'Malley  had  sent  in  several  re- 
ports through  Lannegan,  the  man  who  had  been 
detailed  to  locate  the  garage  where  Kent  kept  his 
car.  This  had  easily  been  done,  and  Lannegan  had 
telephoned  from  the  Empire  Garage  while  waiting 
for  said  car  to  put  in  an  appearance.  It  was  only  a 
short  block  from  Kent's  apartment,  and  it  had  been 
an  easy  matter  for  Lannegan  to  slip  over  at  intervals 
without  losing  sight  of  the  brightly  lit  garage  en- 
trance, and  have  a  word  with  his  chief,  who  was 
stationed  in  front  of  the  apartment.  O'Malley  had 
instructed  him  to  send  in  word  to  the  office  that  Kent 
had  not  yet  come  home,  according  to  the  elevator- 
boy  and  Kent's  own  servants,  and  O'Malley  felt  cer- 
tain they  were  telling  the  truth.  The  last  report  was 
sent  in  at  8:45.  At  that  time  Kent  was  still  missing. 

"There's  still  a  chance  that  he  may  have  come  in 
by  this  time,  at  that,"  said  Peter  to  Winkle,  glancing 

256 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  257 

at  his  watch  as  he  hurried  back  to  the  waiting  motor. 
"It's  now  9:23,  and  a  lot  can  happen  in  a  half  hour 
in  this  old  burg.  Why,  where's  Hood  ?"  he  broke  off 
as  he  opened  the  car  door  and  saw  no  one  but  Car- 
lisle sitting  at  the  wheel. 

"Hope  you  and  the  inspector  won't  mind,"  replied 
Harrison  at  once,  "but  old  Louis  has  ducked.  Said 
he  couldn't  be  of  any  assistance  to  you,  and  didn't 
care  to  be  in  at  the  death.  Gad !  I  don't  feel  that 
way,  damn  him!  The  cold-blooded  coward.  When 
I  think  that  he  sat  at  Mother's  table  the  night 
he—  Oh,  hop  in,  Peter,  and  let's  be  off.  We're 
wasting  time." 

"You  don't  mind  Louis  beating  it,  do  you,  Peter?" 
Carlisle  added  in  a  lower  voice  as  Clancy  took  his 
place  beside  him  on  the  front  seat.  "He  wanted  to 
get  to  Sylvia  as  soon  as  he  could  in  case  she  recognized 
the  picture  of  her  brother  in  the  paper  to-night.  He 
wanted  to  explain  it  all,  and  set  her  mind  at  rest, 
poor  girl.  Between  you  and  me,  Peter,  I  can't  be 
sorry  that  a  poor  unlucky  devil  like  Walter  Farquhar 
got  out  of  this  hole  of  a  mortal  world  by  a  quick  and 
painless  road.  But  that  doesn't  help  Kent  out  any. 
He  was  aiming  at  the  decentest,  whitest  chap  I  know, 
and  the  sooner  you  catch  up  to  him  and  let  him  have 
what's  coming,  the  better." 

Talking  half  to  himself,  half  to  Peter,  Harrison 
guided  the  car  swiftly  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
his  companion,  and  in  a  very  short  time  they  drew 


258  Q.  E.  D. 

up    in    a    shadowy   spot    alongside   the    railings   of 
Gramercy  Park. 

Peter  leapt  lightly  out  before  the  car  came  to  a 
standstill,  and  went  quietly  and  swiftly  along  the 
pavement  until  he  came  to  the  corner  of  the  railing, 
and  saw  across  the  roadway  the  lighted  front  of  a 
handsome  apartment  house.  Here  he  stopped  and 
whistled  softly,  a  low  note,  one  higher  in  the  scale, 
and  then  two  low  notes  together. 

At  the  signal,  a  bulky  figure  detached  itself  from 
the  railings  and  came  quietly  toward  him. 

"Nothing  doing  yet,  Peter,"  said  O'Malley's  gruff 
voice  in  his  ear.  "No  sign  of  our  clever  friend,  and 
there's  no  back  way  in  or  out  of  the  apartments. 
Saw  Lannegan  not  two  minutes  ago.  Kent's  car 
hasn't  shown  up  at  the  garage.  I'm  getting  kind  of 
restless,  Peter.  This  is  a  devil  of  a  long  time  for  him 
to  have  taken  driving  in  from  Jersey.  What  do  you 
say  we  go  up  and  talk  to  the  servants,  and  see  if  we 
can't  start  something.  I  haven't  seen  anybody  but 
his  man  so  far.  Just  went  up  as  a  friend  to  see  if 
Mr.  Kent  was  home,  you  understand.  Didn't  want 
to  start  anything  till  you  came." 

"All  right,"  said  Peter,  crisply.  "The  cat's  out 
of  the  bag  as  far  as  Kent's  concerned  by  this  time, 
I'm  certain,  and  we  may  as  well  find  out  what  we 
can,  here.  I'll  get  Winkle,  and  we'll  put  the  servants 
through  the  third  degree.  We  may  get  a  lead  that 
will  help." 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  259 

A  few  minutes  later  Clancy  and  O'Malley,  backed 
by  the  inspector's  imposing  blue  bulk,  were  putting 
questions  to  Kent's  frightened  valet. 

They  ascertained  without  much  difficulty  that 
Kent  had  been  expected  home  to  dinner  at  eight; 
that  shortly  before  that  hour — the  valet  was  too 
much  upset  by  Winkle's  portentous  stare  to  re- 
member the  exact  time — Kent  had  'phoned  that  his 
car  had  broken  down  on  the  road,  and  that  he 
wouldn't  be  in  till  late.  The  friend  who  had  been 
engaged  to  dine  with  him  was  much  annoyed  at  the 
excuse,  it  appeared,  and  had  gone  off,  fuming. 

The  valet  told  of  the  circumstances  with  so  much 
detail,  and  he  was  so  obviously  frightened,  that  there 
was  little  reason  to  doubt  his  word. 

The  three  were  just  about  to  take  themselves  off, 
much  to  the  servant's  relief,  when  the  young,  red- 
headed one  turned  back,  and  asked  suddenly: 

"Have  any  'phone  calls  come  in  for  Mr.  Kent 
during  the  evening?" 

"Why,  yes,  sir,"  said  the  valet,  rubbing  his  long, 
thin  hands  nervously  together.  "There've  been  sev- 
eral calls  during  the  evening." 

"Who  from,  do  you  know?"  asked  Peter,  pleas- 
antly. 

His  manner  was  so  mild  in  comparison  with  that 
of  the  uniformed  officer,  that  the  valet  plucked  up  a 
little  heart  of  grace. 

"One  was  from  Mr.  Rosenbaum,"  he  answered, 


26o  Q.  E.  D. 

readily,  "he's  managing  the  big  movie  production 
at  New  Rochambeau.     He  wanted  to  know 

"Never  mind  him,  who  were  the  other  calls  from?'* 
*  Peter  interposed,  quickly. 

"The  rest  were  all  from  a  lady — the  same  lady,  I 
think,"  replied  the  man.  "I  don't  know  who  it  was, 
but  she  seemed  a  bit  anxious  to  get  in  touch  with 
Mr.  Kent.  She  asked  that  he  should  call  her  as 
soon  as  he  came  in." 

"You  have  her  'phone  number,  then?" 

"Yes,  sir,  here  it  is,"  and  he  took  a  folded  slip 
from  his  pocket:  "Bryant  6543." 

"Got  a  'phone  directory  handy?"  asked  Peter,  mak- 
ing a  mental  note  of  the  number. 

"Yes,  sir,  here  you  are,  sir." 

Peter  ran  through  the  pages  rapidly  and  handed 
the  book  back  to  the  waiting  servant. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "Now  tell 
me  something  else.  When  Mr.  Kent  'phoned,  did 
you  remember  to  give  him  the  lady's  message?" 

"Certainly,  sir,  of  course,"  said  the  man  with  a 
touch  of  dignity. 

"Good,"  said  Peter,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"You're  on  the  job,  I  see.  Right-o.  'Night !" 

And  without  more  words  Peter  hurried  his  two 
companions  out  into  the  hall,  and  down  into  the 
street,  breaking  into  a  run  when  he  reached  the 
pavement,  leaving  the  two  older  men  considerably  in 
the  rear. 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  261 

"To  the  Wayside  Theatre,  Harry!"  panted  Peter, 
"pick  up  O'Malley  and  the  inspector  at  the  corner 
as  you  go.  They're  just  behind  me — see  'em?  No 
time  to  lose!" 

Quick  as  thought,  Carlisle  let  in  the  clutch  and  the 
car  jumped  eagerly  forward,  as  if  it,  too,  longed  to 
run  down  the  prey. 

"Stage  door  just  beyond  the  main  entrance,"  said 

Peter  as  they  swung  into  Forty Street,  and  saw 

the  flashing,  triumphant  lights  of  "The  Wishing 
Stile"  pulsating  against  the  black  and  empty  sky. 
"Drive  on  slowly.  Rawlins'll  be  waiting  somewhere 
along  here." 

Obediently,  the  car  slowed  down  to  a  crawl,  and 
as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  the  glare  of  lights,  Peter 
leaned  from  the  open  window  and  whistled  his  clear, 
low  call. 

He  waited  a  minute,  while  the  car  slid  silently 
along,  then  whistled  again  and  yet  again.  But  no 
shadow  detached  itself  from  the  shadows  of  the 
house  fronts. 

"Damn  funny,"  growled  O'Malley,  from  the  back 
seat.  "  Rawlins's  instructions  were  plain.  He  wasn't 
to  take  any  chances.  I  wonder— 

At  Peter's  direction  the  car  had  turned  and, 
drifting  slowly  back,  had  nearly  reached  the  main 
entrance  of  the  theatre,  when  a  man  dashed  out  of 
the  stage  door,  and  looked  wildly  to  the  right  and  left. 

"There  he  is!"  cried  Peter,  eagerly. 


262  Q.  E.  D. 

At  the  same  instant  Harry  jammed  on  the  brakes, 
and  Peter  whistled  again. 

With  a  look  of  alarm  and  anxiety  slightly  tinged 
with  relief,  the  man  rushed  to  the  car  and  leaped  in  at 
the  door,  which  O'Malley  had  already  opened  for  him. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Rawlins?"  O'Malley's  voice 
was  gruff  and  uneasy.  "Where's  Miss  Gale,  and 
why " 

"She's  gone!"  cried  Rawlins,  apprehensively. 
"Made  clean  off,  while  I- 

"Gone!"  echoed  Peter.  "In  the  middle  of  the 
show!  Good  lord!  How  did  it  happen  that  you 
let  her  give  you  the  slip  ?  Confound  it,  man !  You 
should  have " 

"Easy,  Peter,"  cautioned  O'Malley.  "Let's  hear 
what  the  lad  has  to  say.  Post  mortems  later.  Now 
Rawlins- 

"I  found  out  where  she's  gone,  though,"  cried 
Rawlins,  eager  to  extenuate  a  fault  which  he  knew 
would  be  considered  vital.  "She's  gone  home  in  her 
own  car." 

"To  her  apartment,  or  out  in  the  country?"  asked 
Peter,  quickly. 

"Her  country  house,"  answered  Rawlins,  confi- 
dently. "Got  it  out  of  the  doorman  with  the  help 
of  a  fat  tip.  Chauffeur  was  grumbling  about  the  long 
drive  with  the  storm  coming  up.  That's  how  he 
knew  it  wasn't  her  apartment.  Apartment's  near 
by,  you  know." 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  263 

"She  didn't  give  the  direction  in  the  hearing 
of  the  doorman,  then?" 

"No,  but  I  don't  think  there's  any  mistake.  The 
place  is  somewhere  up  in  Westchester,  not  very  far 
out." 

"Fulham?" 

"The  doorman  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  place." 
Rawlins's  tone  was  regretfully  apologetic.  "But  I 
thought,  perhaps,  you  or  Captain  O'Malley— 

"Know  the  road  to  Fulham,  Harry?"  Peter  cut 
in,  turning  quickly  to  Carlisle. 

"Like  my  own  driveway,"  answered  Harrison, 
with  satisfying  assurance.  "Used  to  be  in  love 
with  a  girl  up  there." 

"Then  beat  it!"  cried  Peter.  "On  your  way! 
And  forget  the  speed  laws — only,  for  God's  sake,  don't 
get  pinched." 

Instantly  the  great  whir  of  the  engine  drowned 
his  voice.  Smoothly  the  gears  shifted  from  first, 
to  second,  to  third.  The  voice  of  the  car  sank  to  a 
deep  steady  note,  and  the  swiftest  run  of  Peter's 
life,  which  had  never  been  characterized  by  slowness, 
began. 

"What's  the  idea,  Clancy?"  growled  Inspector 
Winkle,  as  they  swung  into  Fifth  Avenue.  "I 
thought  it  was  the  man  we  were  after.  What's  this 
actress  got  to  do  with 

"She's  been  'phoning  Kent  ever  since  I  left  her. 
Bryant  6543*5  number  of  the  Wayside  Theatre. 


264  Q.  E.  D. 

They  got  in  touch  soon  after  Kent's  valet  delivered 
her  message.  She  cuts  out  in  the  middle  of  the  show. 
Inference  plain.  They're  meeting  somewhere.  Find 
her — find  him — see  ? "  explained  Peter,  tersely.  "  She 
may  not  go  to  Fulham  at  all,  of  course,  but  it  is 
the  best  bet  for  the  time  being.  I've  been  to  her 
apartment.  They  wouldn't  go  there.  May  be  a 
million  places  where  they  might  meet,  but  I'm 
putting  my  money  on  Fulham,  for  the  time  being, 
see?  And  the  sooner  we  get  there,  the  sooner  we'll 
know." 

"How  in  hell  did  she  give  you  the  slip  like  that, 
Rawlins?"  broke  in  O'Malley,  angrily.  "I  thought 
you'd  been  long  enough  in  the  business  not  to  be 
fooled  by  a  woman." 

"Well,  Captain,  you  see,"  began  Rawlins,  defen- 
sively, "I  kept  her  in  my  eye,  as  you  might  say,  till 
I  saw  her  landed  at  the  theatre.  And  then,  some- 
how, confound  it  all,  it  didn't  come  into  my  thick  old 
bean  that  she  wasn't  safe  till  the  show  was  over. 
So  I  just  thought  I'd  take  a  peek  at  her  from  the 
front.  Seemed  just  as  good  a  way  of  watching  her  as 
any.  And  they  say  'The  Wishing  Stile'  is  a  peach  of 
a  show.  Anyway,  I  took  a  stand-up  seat  and  saw 
her  in  the  first  act,  all  right.  I  didn't  suspicion 
anything,  and  I  was  close  by  the  door,"  still  more 
defensively.  "  I  went  out  into  the  street  and  watched 
till  the  second  act  was  called,  and  she  didn't  come 
out  then." 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  265 

"Of  course  not,  you  fool,"  grunted  O'Malley. 
"Take's  some  time  to  change  into  street  clothes. 
Well,  go  on." 

"I  had  a  pair  of  opera  glasses,"  Rawlins  contin- 
ued, obediently,  "and  I  had  'em  trained  on  her  when 
she  came  on  in  the  second  act,  which  was  some  time 
after  the  act  started,  see  ?  And  at  first  I  was  almost 
fooled  myself,  the  other  girl  done  so  well,  and  looked 
so  much  like  her,  but  in  a  minute  or  two  I  got  wise  and 
then  you  couldn't  have  seen  me  for  the  dust,  beating 
it  around  to  the  stage  door."  ' 

"And  you  were  too  late,  of  course." 

"Yes,"  sadly,  "she'd  just  gone.  The  doorman 
told  me  she'd  been  taken  ill  during  the  performance 
and  had  to  go  home.  I'd  just  wormed  the  rest  out  of 
him  and  was  on  my  way  to  'phone  the  office  when  I 
seen  you." 

"Well,  I  guess  that'll  be  about  all  from  you, 
Rawlins.  I  think  we  can  manage  to  dispense  with 
your  services  about  now,"  said  O'Malley,  with 
pointed  sarcasm.  "If  you'll  slow  up  a  bit,  Mr.  Car- 
lisle, we'll  let  Rawlins  go  home  and  go  to  bed  where 
he  can  continue  his  sleep." 

Harrison  slowed  down  at  once,  and  before  the 
car  came  to  a  stop  Rawlins,  glad  to  escape,  sprang 
out. 

"Miss  Gale  can't  have  such  a  devil  of  a  long  start," 
said  Peter  with  relief  as  the  car  sped  on.  "We  may 
pick  her  up  on  the  road  and  trail  her  home.  Her 


266  Q.  E.  D. 

car's  one  you  can  hardly  miss.  I've  seen  it,  ridden  in 
it,  in  fact."  He  grinned  slightly.  "It's  a  kind  of 
bright  violet  colour  all  over,  even  the  inside  cushions 
and  things.  We  may  see  it  any  minute.  If  we're 
on  the  right  road,"  he  added,  uneasily. 

The  road,  right  or  wrong,  was  smooth  as  a  billiard- 
table,  shining  dark  blue  in  the  lights  of  the  park 
through  which  they  were  at  that  moment  passing 
at  hair-raising  speed.  At  this  mid-theatre  time  of 
night  the  way  was  practically  clear,  and  the  "traffic 
cops"  mindful  of  the  intelligent  law  that  a  man  may 
drive  as  fast  as  he  likes  so  long  as  he  does  not  jeop- 
ardize others,  let  them  pass  without  interference. 

The  storm  which  had  been  brewing  in  hot  and 
angry  silence  all  through  the  evening  now  gave  hints 
of  its  coming  fury.  The  sky,  which  had  appeared 
low-hung,  empty,  and  black,  was  now  riven  by  sharp 
swords  of  blinding  light.  The  wind  was  rising  in  deep, 
sighing  exhalations.  In  the  lightning  flash,  with  the 
speed  of  a  camera-shutter,  were  revealed  high-flung 
masses  of  cloud,  lurid  and  awful,  towrering  into  the 
zenith,  the  tense  stillness  of  the  lower  air  making 
their  swift  progress  across  the  sky  a  thing  of  mystery 
and  menace. 

Then  the  rain  began  to  fall.  It  came  on  the  first 
downward  sweep  of  wind  and  struck  the  slender, 
flying  car  with  the  force  of  an  intentional  and  well- 
aimed  blow. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  second  to  close  the  wind  shield 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  267 

and  the  windows,  and  the  car  sped  on  without  an 
instant's  slackening  of  its  whirling  pace. 

"Some  night!  I'll  tell  the  world,"  said  Peter, 
leaning  forward. 

Harrison  Carlisle  nodded  quietly,  keeping  his  cool 
glance  fixed  on  the  road  ahead.  With  marvellous  skill 
he  carried  on,  slowing  for  curves  to  prevent  skidding, 
and  picking  up  again  with  a  celerity  which  did  equal 
justice  to  his  skill  and  the  flexibility  of  his  engine. 

At  the  Harlem  Bridge  he  stopped  for  an  instant  at 
Peter's  direction  while  Peter  dashed  out  in  the  rain  to 
speak  to  the  policeman,  who,  in  streaming  poncho, 
guarded  the  approach. 

"All  right,  so  far,"  said  Peter,  slamming  the  door, 
and  shaking  big  drops  of  water  all  about  him  as  he 
dropped  into  his  seat.  "The  violet  car  passed  here 
just  before  the  rain  commenced." 

The  car  was  already  in  motion.  The  lights  of  the 
little  river  flashed  by  and  were  gone.  More  lights, 
then  dark  and  silent  country,  which  seemed  desolate 
and  uninhabited  except  when  the  sharp,  sudden 
flashes  showed  great  houses  of  large  estates  sheltering 
themselves  among  the  distant  trees. 

On  again  and  ever  on.  Villages  flew  by  with  a 
dazzling,  swimming  blur  of  lights.  The  roar  of  the 
wind  and  the  heaving  boom  of  the  thunder  drowned 
the  voice  of  the  motor,  silenced  the  splashing  whirr  of 
the  wheels.  All  other  sound  was  swept  away  in  the 
terrific  onslaught  of  the  storm. 


268  Q.  E.  D. 

"Coming  into  Fulham  here,"  said  Carlisle  at  last. 
His  voice  was  as  calm  and  unruffled  as  if  the  black 
night  were  broad  day.  Only  a  slight  deepening  of 
its  pitch  showed  that  he  had  any  emotion  to  con- 
ceal. "Where  do  we  go  first?" 

"To  the  police  station,"  said  Peter,  promptly. 
"We've  got  to  pick  up  a  cop  to  make  the  actual 
arrest,  in  case  we  find  our  man  where  I  think  he  is. 
Got  to  be  prepared.  Jersey  warrant  not  enough, 
you  understand.  Know  where  it  is?" 

Carlisle  nodded,  and  a  moment  later  drew  up  before 
a  neat,  white-trimmed  brick  building  where  a  green 
light  winked  in  a  blur  through  the  rain. 

Peter  and  the  inspector  went  in  together,  reap- 
pearing in  an  incredibly  short  time  with  a  man  in 
uniform. 

"Get  in  in  front,  will  you,  Officer,"  said  Peter, 
"and  direct  the  way." 

"Gad,  I'm  glad  we  had  sense  enough  to  let  Car- 
lisle bring  us  in  from  Fern  Hills  instead  of  taking 
the  train,"  he  muttered  to  O'Malley  as  he  slipped 
in  beside  his  partner.  "I  don't  believe  another 
man  in  the  world  would  have  brought  us  along  at  the 
pace  we  came." 

"He's  some  little  driver,"  admitted  O'Malley, 
"but  I'll  bet  my  hair,  what  there  is  of  it,  won't  lie 
down  for  a  week." 

"Me,  too,"  growled  the  inspector.  "Talk  about 
being  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  death,  I've  been  in 


THE  STORM  BREAKS  269 

and  out  of  'em  so  many  times  in  the  last  hour  that  I 
know  the  shape  of  all  its  front  teeth." 

Peter  was  not  listening.  He  had  slid  forward  on 
the  middle  of  the  seat  and,  leaning  on  the  back  of  the 
one  in  front,  peered  anxiously  ahead. 

"Great  storm  we've  had  out  here  to-night,"  the 
Fulham  officer  was  saying  to  Carlisle,  "done  lots  of 
damage.  Think  it's  letting  up  a  bit  now,  though. 
Turn  right  here,  and  right  again  at  the  next  corner 
but  one.  Miss  Gale's  house  is  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
facing  the  end  of  the  road.  Backs  up  on  the  old  For- 
est estate.  Fine  place.  Empty  now." 

"Forest  estate?"  said  Carlisle,  quickly.  "Why, 
I  know  that  place.  Some  friends  of  mine  lived  just 
below  there  on  the  Boston  Post  Road  where  the  New 
Rochambeau  trolley  runs.  Used  to  visit  them  a  lot." 

"That's  the  place,"  said  the  officer.  "Miss  Gale's 
house  is  just  to  the  west,  this  side.  Turn  here. 
There  it  is." 

"  Slow  down,  Harry,"  said  Peter,  sharply, "  and  let's 
see.  Oh,  here — drive  in  through  this  gate  and  keep 
your  lights  on.  Nobody  likely  to  run  into  you.  And 
we  can't  afford  to  leave  the  car  in  the  road.  You  can 
stay  here  where  it's  dry  and  look  out  that  nobody 
steals  it.  It's  no  good  your — 

"Oh,  to  hell  with  the  car '."said  Carlisle,  feelingly. 
"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  miss 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Peter,  smiling  grimly.  "It's 
not  going  to  be  any  picnic." 


270  Q.  E.  D. 

The  car  had  stopped  in  a  private  drive  where  it 
was  hidden  from  the  road.  Silently  its  occupants 
descended  and,  unmindful  of  the  heavy  rain  which 
beat  into  their  faces,  filed  quietly  out  into  the 
road. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 

'VJO  USE  the  whole  bunch  coming  any  nearer 
•*  ^  till  I've  had  a  peek,"  said  Peter,  stopping  his 
companions  just  inside  the  gate  of  the  house  at 
the  top  of  the  hill.  "Get  in  there  in  the  bushes, 
and  wait  till  I  come  back." 

So  sure  was  Peter  Clancy  of  himself  that  no  one, 
not  even  Inspector  Winkle,  questioned  his  right 
of  leadership.  Noiselessly  the  four  men  slipped  in 
among  the  wet  shrubbery,  and  Peter  disappeared. 
In  a  moment  he  returned,  breathless  but  elated. 

"He's  there!  God!  I  was  right,  O'Malley!"  he 
panted.  "He's  there  with  her.  In  the  living  room. 
Right  off  the  main  hall.  Saw  them  through  a  crack 
in  the  shutters.  She's  no  more  sick  than  I  am — and 

furious — mad He's.    .    .    .    But  come  on,  and 

for  God's  sake  keep  quiet." 

"Spread  out  now,"  Peter  whispered,  "and  you, 
Winkle,  go  round  to  the  back.  It's  just  possible 
he  may  make  a  break  that  way.  The  rest  of  you 
get  out  of  sight.  I'm  going  to  the  door  alone. 
Don't  get  too  far  away,  and  run  in  if  you  hear  me 
whistle." 

271 


272  Q.  E.  D. 

A  nod  of  understanding  and  the  four  figures 
melted  into  the  rain. 

With  a  long  breath,  Peter  went  up  the  walk  alone 
and  softly  ascended  the  steps.  He  paused  an  in- 
stant with  his  clenched  hand  uplifted  and  then 
quietly  touched  the  bell. 

Absolute  silence  ensued.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  light  which  filtered  through  the  soft  silk  curtains 
of  the  side  lights  of  the  door  it  would  have  seemed 
that  the  house  was  empty. 

But  Peter  knew  better.  Again  he  pressed  the 
bell. 

After  a  moment  he  heard  a  door  open  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  a  heavy  footstep  approaching. 
It  stopped,  however,  and  Peter,  straining  his  ears, 
thought  he  detected  the  sound  of  low  voices.  He 
would  have  given  worlds  to  see  what  was  going  on 
inside  the  house,  but  there  was  here  no  loophole 
for  observation.  The  curtains  at  the  side  covered 
the  small  panes  closely  and  the  key  was  in  the 
lock. 

It  seemed  a  year  to  his  impatience  before  the 
heavy  footsteps  sounded  again  and  the  door  was 
opened  a  very  little  way.  A  tall  darky  in  a  white 
coat  stood  in  the  lighted  crack,  his  bulk  completely 
filling  it. 

"Evenin',  suh,"  said  the  man,  with  the  courtesy 
of  his  race,  but  with  a  trace  of  trepidation  in  his  eyes. 

"I  want  to  see  Miss  Gale  on  some  very  important 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS  273 

business,"  said   Peter,   smiling  blandly.     "Will  you 
give  her  my  card?" 

"Miss  Gale's  in  New  York,"  said  the  darky, 
readily.  "She's  playin'  to-night  and  won't  be  home 
twell  late.  Ahm  sorry,  suh.  Hit  sho'  is  one  wet 
night  t'be  out  in."  And  he  made  as  though  to  close 
the  door. 

Peter's  manner  changed  instantly,  and  before  the 
man  could  realize  what  had  happened  he  was  looking 
into  the  round  steel  blue  eye  of  a  business-like  auto- 
matic. 

"Stand  out  of  the  way,"  said  Peter,  in  a  fierce 
whisper,  "stand  back,  or  .  .  ." 

But  he  got  no  further.  There  came  a  bull-like 
roar  from  the  darkness  behind  the  house: 

"Damn  you!  I.  ...  God!" 
•  It  was  Winkle's  voice.  Peter  recognized  it, 
guessed  like  a  flash  what  had  happened,  and  with 
a  shout,  dashed  madly  around  the  house,  beating 
through  the  bushes,  driving  deep  into  flower  beds, 
soft  and  muddy  with  the  rain,  panting,  straining 
to  reach  the  voice  which  was  leading  him  into  the 
blinding,  splashing  blackness. 

Behind  him,  all  attempt  at  concealment  scattered 
to  the  wild  winds,  came  the  others.  For  a  second  a 
white  flash  of  lightning  showed  as  in  a  picture  a 
broad  garden  with  grass  walks,  and  beyond  it  a  low 
stone  wall.  A  small,  slender  man,  bare  headed, 
his  clothes  streaming  with  wet,  was  upon  the  top  of  it 


274  Q-  E.  D. 

and  behind  was  Inspector  Winkle  running  forward 
with  all  his  might. 

The  man  leaped  down  and  darkness  closed  in  again, 
blacker  than  ever  after  the  glare. 

Peter  was  conscious  that  Winkle  was  scrambling 
over  the  wall  as  he  leaped  it,  that  Harry  was  calling, 
close  behind — even  made  out  the  words:  "Making 
for  the  trolley!  Look  out!"  And  all  the  while 
his  senses  were  straining  through  the  wild  darkness 
for  the  sound  of  feet  ahead. 

Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  the  great  bulk  of  a  dark 
and  silent  house  on  his  right.  Then  he  heard  the 
footsteps  of  his  quarry  crashing  and  stumbling  on  the 
uneven  gravel  of  an  unkempt  drive.  So  clear  was 
Peter's  mind,  in  spite  of  his  mad  pace  through  the 
blinding  storm,  that  he  was  distinctly  conscious 
of  the  thought  that  Kent  must  be  utterly  panic- 
stricken  to  stick  to  the  road  instead  of  hiding 
somewhere,  since  it  was  obvious  that  he  knew  the 
surroundings,  and  letting  the  chase  go  by. 

The  drive  dropped  down  the  hill  and  Peter  ran 
on  the  rough  grass  beside  it  the  better  to  hear  the 
feet  ahead.  He  was  gaining.  They  sounded  per- 
ceptibly nearer  now,  still  fleeing  for  life  itself.  There 
was  confession  of  guilt,  abject  and  incontrovertible 
in  every  crashing  footfall. 

Far  outdistancing  the  others,  Peter  came  on, 
nearer  and  still  nearer.  His  prey  was  close  ahead, 
but  Peter  could  see  nothing. 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS  275 

"Stop,  Kent!"  he  shouted,  and  his  voice  sounded 
distinct  and  awful  above  the  roar  of  the  storm. 
"I'll  get  you  dead  or  alive!  Stop,  or  I'll  fire!" 

Still  the  pounding  crash  on  the  gravel  showed  that 
Kent's  pace  had  not  slackened. 

It  was  useless  to  fire  at  an  unseen  target  and  Peter, 
redoubling  his  speed,  closed  up  the  distance  between 
them.  In  passing,  he  grazed  his  arm  on  a  great 
stone  gatepost  and  suddenly  the  crashing  footsteps 
ceased.  Peter  stopped  at  once,  holding  his  breath. 

There  was  not  a  sound,  not  the  faintest  move- 
ment in  the  storm-swept  blackness  ahead. 

Peter  crept  noiselessly  forward  and  felt  the  firm 
smooth  stones  of  a  street  pavement  under  his  feet. 

Again  he  listened.  Not  a  sound  except  the  quick 
and  cautious  breathing  of  someone  who  followed 
close  behind. 

Peter,  crouching  and  listening,  felt  a  fumbling 
touch  on  his  shoulder  and  Carlisle's  voice  whispered 
in  his  ear: 

"Where ?" 

Reaching  gropingly  back,  Peter  put  his  hand  over 
Harrison's  mouth. 

"He'll  move  in  a  minute,"  thought  Peter,  "and 
he  must  be  close  by."  And  clutching  his  friend's 
arm  they  crouched  silently  beside  the  walk,  and 
waited.  A  moment — two.  Then  came  a  slitting 
crash  of  lightning  which  lit  the  world,  down  to  the 
tiny  blades  of  grass. 


276  Q.  E.  D. 

Carlisle,  with  a  cry  of  exultation  and  an  oath, 
sprang  forward,  but  Peter  caught  him  bodily  in  his 
arms  and  hurled  him  back. 

"Don't  touch  him!  My  God,  don't  touch  him!" 
yelled  Peter,  wildly.  "It's  death!  It's  death! 
Don't  you  see?" 

A  great  roar  as  of  the  thundering  voice  of  God 
drowned  his  words.  And  upon  its  passing  another 
flash  followed  close,  lighting  the  storm-lashed  coun- 
tryside. 

Across  the  road,  a  broad,  thick  wood  appeared 
stretching  away  into  the  distance.  Near  at  hand 
the  heavy  limb  of  a  great  tree,  torn  and  rent  by  the 
storm,  had  fallen  outward  and,  half  caught  in  midair 
by  overhead  trolley  wires,  lay  across  a  line  of  gleaming 
rails,  which  slid  smoothly  off  to  right  and  left. 
Directly  upon  the  track  crouched  or  drooped  the 
figure  of  a  man.  One  foot  was  on  the  rail,  the  other 
on  the  grass.  He  was  leaning  slightly  forward, 
his  whole  body  tensely  contracted  as  though  for 
a  spring — but  still — horribly,  frightfully  still. 

The  whole  picture  was  clear  for  an  instant  to  their 
wild,  startled  gaze.  Then  it  flashed  out  and  van- 
ished in  the  roaring  darkness. 

"Sagging  overhead  wire,  brought  down  by  the 
falling  tree,"  breathed  Peter,  awesomely.  "Sagging 
electric  wire  fully  charged.  If  you'd  touched  him, 
Harry,  it  would  have  gotten  you,  too.  Made  a  con- 
tact and  gone  through  you  like  a  stroke  of  lightning. 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS  277 

God!"  It  was  almost  a  sob.  "The  sagging  wire 
caught  him  in  full  flight  as  he  was  making  for 
the  woods.  .  .  .  Hanging  there  .  .  .  and 
dead  .  .  .  Dead  .  .  .  'Vengeance  is  mine. 
I  will.  .  .  .  .'  It  was  taken  out  of  our  hands." 
Peter  turned  and  caught  his  friend's  arm  in  a  grip 
that  bit  to  the  bone.  "It  was  the  wire  that  caught 
him,  do  you  see?"  said  he,  in  a  slow,  odd  voice. 
"A  wire!  And  that  was  his  end.  .  .  .  As  though 
it  had  been  thought  out — planned  .  .  .  from 
the  beginning.  Somewhere  it  says — and  it's  true, 
God,  it's  true!" — his  voice  dropped  and  gravely, 
fatefully,  he  repeated  the  words—  "they  that  take 
the  sword  shall  perish  with  the  sword'." 


The  dawn  was  breaking  as  Peter  Clancy,  white 
and  tired,  looked  up  from  a  sheaf  of  pages,  filled  with 
his  neat,  clear  writing,  and  across  the  desk  at  Har- 
rison Carlisle,  who  had  shared  his  vigil  and  had 
assisted  him  somewhat  in  his  labours.  "That's  the 
whole  story,  and  I  think  it's  clear,"  said  Peter, 
wearily.  "I'll  send  it  to  the  Meteor  by  messenger, 
and  it'll  be  in  the  morning  edition.  Ought  to  make 
me  more  solid  there  than  ever.  It's  some  scoop, 
I'll  tell  the  world!" 

He  ran  his  hand  through  his  shock  of  red  hair, 
which  was  already  sticking  up  almost  to  its  fullest 
extent,  and  sighed  wearily. 


278  Q.  E.  D. 

"I  think  nobody  can  have  any  lingering  doubts 
about  Hood  after  this,"  he  said,  meditatively.  "I've 
gone  as  easy  with  Miss  Gale  as  possible,  and  it  sure 
will  give  her  publicity,  and  then  some;  so  she  ought 
to  be  satisfied.  I've  given  most  of  the  honour  to 
our  friend  Inspector  Winkle;  so  he  ought  to  be 
happy.  .  .  .  But  it's  myself,  old  chap,  myself," 
said  Peter,  with  a  flash  of  his  old  smile,  "who's 
able  to  write  at  the  end  of  this  problem — *Q.  E.  D'." 


THE    END 


3  1158  00717   1977 


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